Don't I Get A Dream For Myself
by niblettk
Summary: Kurt is diagnosed with the same disease that killed his mother.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: Mass for the whole story: I do not own anything.  
**  
Author's Note**: The title is completely random and in no way am I going to work "Hey, Jude" into my story; I can't write songfics and I hate titling my stories, so this is what you get.

I take credit for all my mistakes, but I also need to give credit to the amazing rainbowdocms over at livejournal for all her help.

I did extensive research for this but the internet can only provide so much; if I get anything incorrect in the treatment procedures, I apologize now, but for the purposes of my story, I'm right.

I'm hoping to post one chapter of this a week during the summer and a little bit into September. I've had the prologue written since the first hiatus and the first couple chapters were all written before "Journey," but I've delayed posting to allow myself the time to adjust according to canon and to enable myself to write a little more so I can actually stick to this one-chapter-a-week schedule.

The prologue is just over 500 words, and each chapter will likely be between 1500 and 2000 words. Hopefully I'll lean more towards the higher word count, but I'm not promising anything.

**Prologue **

Kurt felt like his insides had melted away.

Dr. Mitchum frowned, his forehead creasing in three imperfect lines. His voice washed over Kurt like a mega-sized slushie shower, "I'd like to schedule a bone marrow biopsy, Kurt."

His mouth went dry. He twisted his thumbs into the hem of his sweater, a pale cerulean gem from Donna Karan. Mitchum was still talking, "I'd like to book it as soon as possible."

Kurt let out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way Dr. Mitchum's face softened, "I thought it was rare in children."

The man dropped his pen and pushed himself closer on the generic swivel chair, "It is rare… Kurt, I know this is scary, but we caught it early. This is _good_ news." He put a hand on Kurt's shoulder and squeezed once, letting his hand linger for a moment, before he turned to scribble something on a slip of paper, "Take this down the hall to Gloria, and she'll get you set up."

Kurt took the paper and closed his eyes. He untangled his hands–he hated that they were shaking–and slid off the examining table. Everything felt too real: the steel of the doorknob beneath his fingers was too cold; the firm counter between him and Gloria's sympathetic smile was too hard; the sound of his feet in the empty hallway was too loud.

As she scheduled his biopsy, Gloria rattled off about a vacation to Morocco she'd just been on, which didn't explain the hideous spray tan, but Kurt nodded vacantly anyways. He shivered as he stepped outside; the cold November air stung his cheeks like tiny pinpricks.

He wiped angrily at his tears, already flowing in a constant stream.

He fumbled with the keys, trying to start his baby, which his dad had given him back after he'd overheard Finn telling Kurt to text him if Karofsky or Azimio came after him again. When the Navigator rumbled to life, he turned off the music immediately. He wasn't sure he could handle the bubbly tone of _Legally Blonde_ right now.

He nearly got into an accident when his tears started blurring his vision, but he didn't slow down.

He debated for barely a second before deciding that he needed real, physical comfort. Not the placating hand of Dr. Mitchell or that self-indulgent smile of Gloria's or the imaginary–albeit comforting–presence of his mother, but the firm shoulder of his dad or the warm arms of Mercedes.

When he stumbled out of the car at the garage, he'd barely straightened when his dad came out of the office to greet him. It took barely a second for his dad's smile to fall from his face, for the spark in his eyes to sputter and die.

Kurt wished his mom was really here. She would tell him it would be okay, that he would be okay, that his dad would be okay even if he wasn't. But then his dad was taking a few quick steps around a tool bench and pulling him tight against him, rubbing slow circles on his shaking back.

"It'll be okay, Kurt, you'll be okay."

Kurt fisted the back of his dad's shirt and tried to believe him.


	2. Chapter 1

Kurt clenched his hands around the steering wheel.

Rain streaked down the windows and the wipers squeaked against the glass; Kurt watched two freshmen sprint towards the school with a detached interest, sucking his right cheek inwards and chewing on it.

He had to go in. He had to tell Tina. Tell Artie. Tell _Mercedes._

He had no idea where he'd begin. He'd spent the entire night trying to figure out what to say. He'd tried to make a joke of it and had asked his dad. He'd ended up sleeping on the couch with his dad–apparently any mention of the leukemia was going to set both of them off into a fit of desperate tears and pathetic "I love you"s–with no answer to his question.

He figured with Artie, the best approach might be a technical, full-of-medical-jargon announcement, and with Tina, a simple request for her to not make a big deal about it might go a long way, but Mercedes was a completely different story.

Not to mention Rachel, who would be devastated if she wasn't included in his tiny list of people-to-tell-that-he's-dying and who, even though it abhorred him to admit it, was actually included on said list.

"Dude, you've got to go in eventually."

Kurt tilted his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. "I know." Finn reached out and dug his fingers under Kurt's right hand, where the knuckles were turning white on the wheel, and pulled at them until Kurt released it.

"Come on. If you want, I can be with you when you tell them. For, you know… moral support?"

"Yeah. Maybe." Kurt unbuckled his seat and opened his door, sliding from the car before he gave himself a chance to change his mind and drive home.

* * *

Finn had come down into their shared room late the night before, apparently having been told to leave him be for a while, and when he'd seen Kurt curled up on his bed, shaking but not crying, he'd turned back around and walked back up the stairs.

"Hey, Mr. Hummel?" Finn hadn't called him Burt since the yelling match in Kurt's room, and until Burt asked him to stop, he'd keep doing so.

Burt and Carole glanced up from the couch, and he'd nodded for Finn to continue, a wary, concerned look growing on his face.

"Uhm, where is Kurt's mom's old dresser?" Carole had simply looked surprised and Burt's eyebrows knitted together.

"Why?"

Finn shifted awkwardly to rest heavily on his right foot, "Kurt told me it makes him feel better sometimes. I thought, maybe, unless you still use it, I could move it down to our room."

The idea of silence being "deafening" had never made sense to Finn, but he'd never had the courage to ask somebody for fear of being stared at like the way everybody stares at Brittany at one point or another, and it had hit him all-too-quickly when Burt's look cleared.

Finn had swallowed, and then winced when it was louder than anything else he'd ever heard.

Burt cleared his throat, and Finn felt ten times worse about what he was asking when he came to the startling realization that Burt was trying not to cry.

"It's the one with the broken door. Left side of the bed."

Finn hadn't expected him to help, so he'd just nodded, turning and climbing the stairs as quickly as he could without making it seem like he was fleeing.

When he had set the dresser down beside Kurt's bed, the other boy had let out a choked laugh and sat up, reaching out to run his hand over it once. He hadn't said anything until an hour later, when Finn was staring at the ceiling and trying to sleep, and Finn hadn't replied, but the quiet, "Thanks," had reached his ears clearly in the too silent room.

* * *

Now, Kurt had his arms crossed, almost wrapping around himself like he had when Finn had yelled at him a few weeks before, and was maintaining his uncharacteristically quiet mood. He was walking with Artie towards the cafeteria, and Kurt was beginning to dread sitting down for lunch.

He could imagine it; sitting around with all the original glee clubbers, Kurt would be incapable of avoiding Finn's concerned, encouraging look, and Rachel or Mercedes would be as perceptive as usual and notice it as well and then he'd be forced to tell them even if he wanted to pretend for a little while that he just _wasn't_ sick.

"Kurt!" Kurt twitched, glancing down at Artie with his right eyebrow lifting in a perfect arc, "You've been ignoring me for the past minute. Is something wrong?"

Kurt's mouth went dry. He imagined that all the liquid from his mouth had moved to his hands, but he couldn't bring himself to wipe his hands on his new Jade Howe jeans; a strangled noise escaped his throat instead of a coherent sentence and Artie pulled himself to a stop.

Kurt didn't stop, and he knew he would be ashamed of what he was about to do the moment he decided to do it, but he launched himself at the next flight of stairs.

He heard somebody gasp behind him and Artie called his name, loud and horrified, but he couldn't bring himself to turn around.

* * *

Of all places, he hid in the gymnasium. He slouched down against the wall at the top of the bleachers, trying to hide from Sue Sylvester's penetrating gaze. She shouted through the megaphone at the female cheerios, who were practicing a routine for next year that he wasn't involved in.

Brittany waved excitedly at him, her face falling when he barely lifted his hand in response, but he knew there was no way she'd risk the wrath of Sue Sylvester or Santana by breaking out of formation.

He was there for at least twenty minutes–he couldn't be sure–and he spent the time stretching his hand and trying to ignore the fact that joint pain was a symptom of his leukemia.

Artie wheeled into the gym with a solid half hour of lunch to spare. Kurt didn't see him until he'd pushed his chair to the foot of the bleachers, where Kurt was sitting on the second highest bench. Artie folded his hands in his lap and looked up at Kurt, a frown on his face.

Kurt sighed and stood up, turning and examining the back of his pants and wiping off imaginary dust to delay the inevitable. He walked to the stairs and made his way down, sitting down heavily in front of the wheelchair, and Artie pushed a little closer, as if to trap him there.

"I didn't text the girls, because I'm pretty sure your girl would bust some more windows." Artie tried to grin at him, and even though Kurt knew he was forgiven, he couldn't force a smile onto his face. Artie's mouth dropped quickly into a frown, "Seriously, Kurt. What's so bad you had to bolt up a flight of stairs to avoid me?"

Kurt averted his eyes. Sue had dismissed the cheerleaders and they were skipping out in groups of twos and threes; he watched Brittany glance over and nod to herself when she saw him with Artie.

"I don't know how to..." Artie stayed silent. Kurt glanced back at him, ashamed to feel tears welling in his eyes again. This was _Artie_. If it were one of the girls, or he wasn't at school, maybe he'd feel a little better about crying, but he didn't.

"Hold up. Are you going to cry?" Artie's eyes widened behind his glasses, and Kurt closed his eyes, afraid that he was going to leave. He reached up to brush a tear away, and Artie swore vehemently. It surprised Kurt more than anything–the worst he'd ever heard Artie say was "damn," and that was usually when Artie was talking like he thought he was black.

Kurt didn't even try to brace himself; he just let the words go with the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "I have leukemia."

He opened his eyes after a moment, staring at Artie through his hair, which had fallen out of place to hang in front of his eyes. Artie's eyes had widened behind his frames and his eyebrows were coming together.

"For real?" Kurt nodded, feeling his upper lip quivering, "Why didn't you just tell me?"

He stared past Artie, focused on not breaking down in tears, and avoided looking at Artie's face. He shrugged, "I didn't know how," he glanced down at his knees, pressed firmly together on the bench, "I didn't want it to be _real_."

"I think we should skip school."

Kurt twisted his head back up, "What?"

Rachel took that moment to storm into the gym, all clicking heels and determined arm swinging. She spotted them immediately. Kurt stared at Artie's face, eyes wide.

"Girls, I found him!"

Artie rolled his eyes as the other two came bursting through the gym doors, calling out without looking away from Kurt, "I found him, actually!"

"Yeah, but you didn't tell us you were looking…" Rachel trailed off. Kurt didn't look up at her, he kept his eyes on Artie, but he could see her arms drop from her waist, "Is he... Kurt, were you crying?"

Artie saved him, mercifully, "We were just deciding to skip school."

Tina laughed and high-fived Mercedes, who smiled despite the immediate concern that had flooded her features when Rachel had noticed his tears, but Rachel started protesting immediately, "Artie, while I understand that skipping school is a stereotypical and perceived-as-essential part of any student's high school experience, we could get in trouble and I know Kurt has Spanish and I'm sure Mr. Schuester will be worried if he doesn't show up and–"

"Chill, white girl," Mercedes cut across, her voice laced with her usual sass, "Why are we skipping, again?"


	3. Chapter 2

Miraculously, Rachel seemed to realize he didn't want everybody to know or he wanted to tell them himself, so by Thursday of the next week, the only people at school who knew were the four Kurt had told in the gym and Finn.

Above anything else, he did not want a repeat of what had happened after he'd told three of what seemed to be the most emotional girls to ever live at the same time–he and Artie had struggled to deal with three bawling girls–so he was intending to catch each additional member of Glee on their own.

He was expecting it to be extremely difficult, considering that once they'd lost at Regionals, Mr. Schuester had gone into some weird funk–Kurt suspected that it had something to do with Miss Pilsbury dating her dentist–and put Glee on hiatus for a few weeks to "give them time to regroup and take a break from their rigorous practice schedule." Kurt wasn't friends with anybody of the other boys in Glee, not really, so catching any of them on their own wasn't something he knew how to do with ease.

No matter what he expected, he hadn't planned on telling everybody in one day.

* * *

Telling Quinn turned out to be surprisingly easy.

He had woken very slowly, his entire body numb and his mind foggy with exhaustion, and so he didn't bother protesting when the footballers hauled him, still in his gently-used designer jacket and his favorite shoulder bag, up and over the edge of the dumpster. He laid in the trash bags for a minute, wondering idly if telling them he was dying might stop the dumpster diving, before bracing himself on the side and pulling his body up.

Rachel, Quinn, and Mercedes were standing beside the dumpster; Rachel was holding her hand out. He only hesitated a moment before he put his larger hand in hers and jumping down. Her arm braced as he put pressure on it, but he landed smoothly and quickly removed his hand from hers.

"Thank you, Rachel." He hated expressing any sort of positive emotion around Rachel, because it always made that ridiculous smile spread across her face, and he really hated that he was starting to find the smile infectious. He brushed himself off the best he could, and Mercedes swept something off his back after he did a turn for her to check his clothes and then handed him a handkerchief when he started coughing.

"Are you okay, Kurt?" Quinn's voice was soft, tentative, like it had been since she'd given up her baby, but Kurt suspected that maybe Mercedes had already mentioned something to her. Rachel shot a significant look at Mercedes and they turned, linking arms and skipping ahead a few paces.

Kurt stayed silent for a moment, automatically pulling Quinn's arm to him and walking in step with her slow, measured strides.

When he said it, he felt Quinn try to tug him to a stop, a soft gasp escaping her lips, and he turned towards her in one fluid twirl and pulled her into a hug.

"I'm fine, Quinn," he whispered into her hair, "I'm just trying to inform all of my friends before I start treatment."

Quinn pulled back, and Kurt wasn't surprised to see her crying. She wiped daintily at her face, blinking her absurdly long lashes at him. "We're friends?" She sounded so vulnerable; Kurt realized just how small she seems in his arms without her baby bump, and he pulled her in for another quick hug.

"Oh, honey. Even if I hadn't already considered you to be my friend, which I did, Mercedes told me we we're all friends now."

Quinn's voice floated up from where her cheek was resting against his shoulder, "Do you always do what Mercedes tell you to do?" She sounded worried, and Kurt felt a surprised laugh escape his lips.

"Of course I do." He lowered his voice as they turned and started following the other two girls again, whispering in Quinn's ear, "Mercedes is terrifying."

* * *

Kurt spent ten minutes mentally berating himself and building up his courage at his locker before he made his way to Mr. Schuester's office and knocked firmly.

The teacher looked up, surprised anybody was coming to see him, and then his face broke out into a brilliant smile that floored Kurt. It was inexplicably out-of-character for the man to be this happy after losing Regionals and Miss Pilsbury.

"Hi, Kurt. I was just going to come and find you." Kurt was confused for barely a second, "Well, not just you. Everyone in Glee. I'm hoping to start rehearsals up again next week sometime."

Kurt's face dropped with his stomach, which seemed to settle somewhere beneath the floor. He took a small step into the room, "Actually, that's sort of what I wanted to discuss with you."

* * *

Mr. Schue's offer to come with him had been nice, but he was running on an adrenaline high since Mike and Matt had walked into the office just as Kurt had said he would likely be starting treatment the next week and he'd had to leave a disturbingly emotional Mike with Matt as his only comfort.

Currently, he was sitting, rigid in his chair, and watching as Sue Sylvester closed the book she was scrawling furiously in. She started underlining something vigorously and he peeked at it, gulping when the words "WILLIAM SCHUESTER" stood off the page.

She slammed the book shut, leaning back to stare at him, and then barked, "What do you want, lady-face?"

"I can't be on the Cheerios anymore."

Her jaw clicked together audibly and he winced. Her voice came clear and forceful through his panic, "No."

He opened his mouth, gaping until he realized just how unattractive it was, before settling on "What?"

"Nobody quits the Cheerios."

"Mercedes quit." He knew it was a mistake the minute it left his mouth, but he didn't do more than scoot slightly backwards in his chair when she stood abruptly. He cut her off before she could say anything, "Look, I worship my status on the squad, but I have leukemia and I start treatment next week."

It came out in a rush. He could barely hear the footsteps of students in the hallway above the pounding in his ears. Even though it was said under different circumstances, Kurt heard Artie's voice loud and clear: "Remember, if Sylvester hits you in the face _don't_ scream like a woman."

Sue stared at him, unmoving, before turning and taking a step towards the windows on the right side of the office. He expected her to pull out one of her iconic "You think this is hard?"s, but when she placed her hands on her hips and she started talking, he managed to unclench his fingers from where they were digging perfect little half moons into his palms, "You're off the squad temporarily. I expect you back next year, ready to take the head cheerleader position."

Kurt choked, standing quickly, "Are you serious!" It's the best–but not the most shocking–news he'd had in a week now, and it made him feel buoyant, "Thank you, Coach!"

He took a quick step towards her and then her voice growled out, "Get. Out."

He turned, fleeing the room. He decided, after sprinting down the hallway and launching himself through the cafeteria to sit with his friends, that that meeting with Sue Sylvester was likely going to remain the most terrifying four minutes of his–hopefully not short–life.

* * *

Santana and Brittany found him at the end of lunch, and despite a quick comment from Brittany–"You look like a glass of milk."–she stayed quiet while Santana stared him down. They stood at his locker, facing off, and Kurt nearly broke down and apologized, but then her eyes narrowed quickly.

"Look, I know you're talented, so I'm not even that mad that you took the spot that should be mine now that Quinnie the Pooh wants to stick with being all huge eyes and honey-sweet smiles."

He nodded because he was unsure what she expected from him, closing his locker, "Well, if that's all you need, I have a very important free period to get to."

"Why aren't you going to be in school for the rest of the year?"

He knew he must have looked like a deer-in-headlights before he pursed his lips and tilted his chin upwards, "I start chemotherapy next Thursday."

Brittany dropped the strand of Santana's hair she'd been playing with during their staring contest and launched herself at Kurt. Kurt stared, helpless, over her head at Santana, who looked like she was about to cry and that was almost worse than Brittany sobbing into his clothes, so he whispered: "She knows what chemotherapy is but not what a ballad is?"

It worked. He knew his question hadn't been that funny, but if Santana's coping mechanism was laughter, he wasn't going to protest. She burst out laughing: a strange, foreign sound that Kurt had heard rarely and never outside of Glee. A nerd down the hall turned and fled, fearing whatever fresh hell that made Santana Lopez laugh so freely in the middle of the hallway.

* * *

He meant to go to his last class of the day, but as he'd left the library near the end of his free period a wave of nausea had hit, so he'd fled into the bathroom.

The boy's bathroom, he realized as he entered. Somebody was standing at a urinal, but Kurt didn't see who it was as he darted into a bathroom stall and dropped to his knees.

Eventually, it turned into dry heaves and then into half-sobs, but whoever had been peeing had entered the stall behind him and was rubbing his back in quick, soft circles, the other hand smoothing his loose bangs off of his forehead.

"You done?"

He nodded weakly, allowing the other boy to flush the toilet and haul him up under his armpits. He was guided to the sink, where he rinsed his mouth thoroughly, glancing up at Puck's face in the mirror.

"I sincerely hope you washed your hands before you touched me." Puck looked like he was about to bolt, so Kurt turned towards him with a strained smile, "I'm joking, Puck."

He took a step forward and swayed, closing his eyes against the room spinning around him. Puck caught him again, lowering him down against the wall. Kurt pulled his knees up to his chest, dropping his head to rest on his arms.

"I'm going to go get Schue."

"No, don't bother."

For a moment, Kurt thought Puck had ignored him and left, but then he slid down the wall beside him, "You look like shit."

Kurt turned his head sideways, taking in Puck's face: his jaw was tight and he was avoiding Kurt's eyes.

"Thank you. I do try."

Puck snorted, finally meeting his eyes, "Seriously, dude. You should go home or something. You've looked like you've been about to collapse all day."

"I haven't seen you all day."

Puck elbowed him gently, "I've seen you." Kurt closed his eyes again, barely understanding the blush that was creeping up his neck.

"I have leukemia," he said it casually–it scared him that it was getting easier to say every time–and ignored the way Puck's body tightened noticeably next to his, "I'm trying to get through as much school as I can before I start treatment."

They both stayed silent, sitting together in the quiet of the bathroom. The halls outside were quiet–class had started and it was unlikely anybody would still be wandering. Kurt didn't open his eyes for a long time, even when Puck dropped an arm gently over his shoulders and left it there.

* * *

_Reviews are love._


	4. Chapter 3

Kurt squeezed his Dad's hand.

Dr. Cartell, Kurt's oncologist, held his right shoulder in her long fingers, inserting a needle into his skin just below his collarbone. He turned his head, grimacing and biting his lip as she pushed down on the plunger and anesthesia flowed into his vein.

"All good? I'll be back in a few minutes."

Burt watched his son carefully, noting the barely-there quiver of his lip as he released it from beneath his teeth and the distinct sheen appearing in his eyes, "Kiddo, you doing okay?"

Kurt met his eyes then. He sniffed, smiling thinly, "I don't know, Dad."

When Cartell came back, Kurt laid down on the thin hospital bed. Burt watched his son's chest rise smoothly, shudder slightly, and then fall. Burt despised everything about this situation, but the worst part was watching his son lose control when he was always so in command of himself. Kurt turned his head away as she brought out the scalpel, and Burt tightened his hold on Kurt's hand.

It didn't take very long and he couldn't feel anything, but when she moved away and declared, "All finished," he looked back and nearly burst into tears.

His hand clenched unconsciously around his Dad's–Kurt didn't notice the fleeting pain that flew across his Dad's face–as he took in the central line. Cartell reached down to wipe away a small streak of blood on his collarbone, where she'd fed the line in, but Kurt was focused on the piece sticking out of his chest. She'd taped it firmly down and stitched up the opening, and now she was explaining how to clean it.

Burt felt like somebody had punched him in the gut when Kurt started to shake his head.

"Kurt, it's all right. It's–"

Kurt launched himself out of the bed, his voice tight and choked, "No. I can't do this." He made it to the door before his Dad caught his arm and pulled him back around.

"Kurt, look–"

"No!" It came out louder than he intended, and he felt color rising in his cheeks. When he spoke again, he kept his voice low enough that Dr. Cartell couldn't hear from where she was watching them, "I don't–I'm really scared, Dad."

With all the craziness that had gone on in the past few months–coming out to his Dad, the jealousy over Finn, the fighting _with _Finn–Kurt had expected that he would never feel more exposed than he'd already felt, but this–standing in nothing but a pair of hospital pajama pants with tears flowing unchecked down his face and a little plastic tube sticking out of his chest–made him feel fragile. Breakable.

He felt like he could splinter into a million tiny pieces if he moved.

Burt moved his hand up to squeeze Kurt's left shoulder, dipping his head to meet his son's frantic eyes, "I know. I'm really scared, too, but I'm not letting you run away from this," a few more tears spilt down Kurt's thin face, "I love you, Kurt, and I'm not going to leave you, okay? I'm not going to let you fall apart."

Kurt nodded feebly, swiping a hand across his eyes.

* * *

Kurt rubbed his shoulder, careful to avoid the line and massage around it. Cartell had warned him that the area would be sore for a few days. He reached into his locker and popped the cap off of the paracetamol she'd prescribed, slipping two into his mouth and swallowing sans water.

He closed his nearly empty locker–he'd been slowly moving his things home–and twirled the lock once to prevent jerks from breaking in and vandalizing or stealing his things, and turned down the hall, clutching his shoulder bag to his side.

He'd barely turned the next corner when Azimio appeared and slammed him into the row of lockers. Kurt couldn't help it; he yelped, one hand coming up to grasp his shoulder again, and as Azimio turned to walk away, high-fiving Dave Karofsky, Kurt shouted after him, "Grow up, morons."

They turned around slowly, and instead of shouting back at him, they simply stormed up to him. Kurt flinched back against the lockers as Karofsky reached out, inciting cruel laughter from both footballers.

Karofsky's hand settled on the front of Kurt's sweater and hauled him forward, the fabric slipping. He glanced down, and for a second Kurt was afraid that he'd somehow prompted a more violent response just by showing skin–and then Karofsky released him, flinging his hand up as if he'd been burned.

There was an unreadable expression on Dave's face as he backed away, catching Azimio under the arm and dragging him down the hallway with him. Kurt glanced around at several onlookers, but they looked just as confused as he felt.

* * *

Kurt found out pretty quickly what had happened.

According to Mike, Karofsky's aunt had died of cancer the year before and he'd spotted Kurt's central line. According to Quinn, he'd punched Jacob Ben Israel in the face for asking her to confirm or deny anything about his cancer, and according to Rachel, it really wasn't her fault this time that the whole school knew.

He wasn't sure how he felt about the way his classmates were parting for him in the hallways, or the way his teachers were telling him it was okay if he didn't get his homework done. Part of him wanted to dance and sing to celebrate the apparent end of the bullying, part of him wanted to take a bat to Azimio's car for shouting about it in the cafeteria when Karofsky explained to him, but half of him wanted to crawl into his bed and cry to mourn the loss of normalcy.

Puck was the one who suggested he go home. He found Kurt sitting in the choir room, idly tapping keys on the piano and letting the notes fade away slowly.

Kurt moved over on the piano bench and let Puck sit down next to him.

"How're you feeling?"

Kurt shrugged one dainty shoulder, "Fine, I guess."

Puck nodded absently, hitting a high key on the piano to match the lower note Kurt was drawing out, "Why are you hiding out in the choir room, then?"

They let the notes die in the unusual quiet of their rehearsal space. For a long time, Puck wasn't sure Kurt was even going to answer him.

"I've imagined this," Puck stayed as still as possible beside him, "Not the cancer, I–I'd envisioned it: people clearing the hallways for me, nobody spitting insults at me. Now that I have it, I don't know if I want it."

"Not like this, at least."

Kurt shook his head, "No. Not like this."

Puck swallowed. He'd never been great at comforting people–he usually made some excuse and vacated the house when his mom or his sister were over-emotional–and he seemed to be the one finding Kurt at his most vulnerable. He was almost positive that Kurt had told everybody else before him–he wasn't going to think about why that hurt, because he couldn't explain that even to himself–and that he'd still managed to comfort most of his friends when he'd told them. Puck wasn't sure why he'd been the one left to comfort Kurt, but he didn't want to get stuck with the role permanently.

"Why don't you go home?"

Kurt laughed, dry and forced, "Can't drive on these painkillers. I have to wait for Finn."

"Come on," Puck stood, hooking a hand under Kurt's elbow and tugging him to his feet, "I'll drive you home."

"Don't you have class?" Puck snorted loudly, and Kurt laughed again. Puck felt something similar to how he felt running a touchdown rise in his chest as Kurt's laugh came out natural–high and free–this time. Kurt grinned at him, completely genuine, and Puck tried not to notice how little color Kurt had in his cheeks. "Right, you're a badass. My apologies, I forgot."

Puck slung an arm over Kurt's shoulder as they walked, "Just don't do it again, Hummel."

* * *

Puck stayed with Kurt for a little while, watching mediocre daytime television, until Kurt passed out on the couch. Puck grabbed the throw from the brown recliner, which he recognized as the one from Finn's house, and tossed it over Kurt.

When he stepped outside of the house, he stopped in his tracks; Finn was standing at the end of the driveway, just about to close the door to Kurt's Navigator.

"What are you doing here?" Finn kept his voice flat, trying not to convey emotion, but Puck could read the tense shoulders and barely narrowed eyes better than he thought he deserved.

"Kurt wasn't feeling great, so I drove him home." Finn's expression didn't change, so Puck started down the walk, "Whatever, man, I was just helping out a friend."

Finn grabbed his shoulder as he tried to pass, "Dude. I don't want to hate you anymore." Puck kept his eyes focused on the bright yellow car across the street, not daring to get his hopes up, "I mean, what you did was totally not cool, and I still haven't forgiven you, but I think you've paid enough for it."

"So we're cool?" Finn nodded, and he pulled Puck into a half-hug and they patted each other's backs roughly, because they'd never really been the touchy-feely type of friends, and then Puck stepped back and shoved his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket.

Finn twirled the keys around his finger, "Hey, so Kurt's Dad said I could do something for him. Want to come with?"

* * *

Kurt rubbed the pink eraser over his homework; he rested a hand on his head and dropped the pencil, sighing.

Puck had found him in the beginning of the first class after lunch to take him home and Kurt was thankful: Jacob Ben Israel was dogging the entire glee club for confirmation; Karofsky had punched a boy who'd been about to throw a slushy at Kurt and Mercedes; Principal Figgins had stopped him in the hallway to announce that he was praying for him; and Ken Tanaka had given Kurt a disgustingly sweaty bear hug.

Fleeing had turned out to be the best thing for him: after his nap, he'd taken a long shower that had eliminated the faint dizziness that had been developing since Azimio slammed him against the lockers, and his homework had been piling up since he'd been diagnosed.

The stairs creaked behind him and he swiveled.

"Don't look!" Kurt spotted Finn's feet retreating back up the stairs, "Close your eyes or I won't come down."

Kurt stood up, taking a step towards the stairs, "Finn, what are you doing?"

Finn's voice cracked as he shouted, "Close your eyes!"

Kurt sat down on the edge of his bed, letting his eyelids fall shut, "Okay, okay, they're shut." Finn's footsteps came slowly down the stairs and then towards him, "Why are they shut?" Something heavy dropped into his lap: a soft, _moving_, heavy something. His eyes flew open and he gaped down at his lap, "Sweet Versace, tell me he's full grown."

He pulled the puppy up to his face and it licked him; he moved away, laughing slightly, and then looked up at Finn with his eyebrow raised.

"Nope, he's eight weeks."

"What kind of dog is he?" Kurt lifted the puppy, holding it in front of him–with a bit of effort–and examining the fur. The puppy was primarily black, with white on his paws, chest, and face and chestnut brown on his legs as well; the chestnut brown rose on his legs slightly and disappeared into the black. The puppy swiped a paw at Kurt's face as Kurt brought him closer to hold against his chest. There was a small patch of the chestnut brown on his chest that seemed out of place, and two small circles sat above the puppy's eyes like tiny eyebrows. He was also impossibly fluffy.

"He's a… uhm, a Bernese mountain dog." The puppy started licking his face and he fell backwards onto his bed to avoid it, "I figured it might be good for you to have something to take care of, since everybody is going to try and take care of you, you know? Do you… Do you like him?"

Kurt moved the puppy off his chest and sat up, "Of course I do. He's adorable."

Finn grinned at him as he stood, "What're you going to call him?"

* * *

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	5. Chapter 4

Kurt had hated hospitals for a long time, and now his room smelled like one; Burt Hummel had pulled out all the stops, hiring a cleaning company to help sterilize their house and paying to keep a personal nurse on call nearly twenty-four hours a day.

There was no way Kurt was staying at the hospital for the full week, and Burt had enough money to pay for home treatment. The four of them in the Hummel-Hudson household had gone to the hospital to learn how to clean Kurt's central line and what to do for various side effects, but he'd be receiving most of his treatment at home.

Dr. Cartell had given them a huge supply of plastic covering for the line, frowning a bit when she'd heard about their new puppy, and was currently bustling around his room. They'd set up the minimal equipment they would need for his chemotherapy, and it was already attached to the line. He watched the drugs–cytarabine and idarubicin, according to Cartell–drip down into the tubing, mesmerized; he could hear Burt and Carole talking to his doctor faintly.

He was sitting cross-legged at the top of his bed. Finn dominated the foot of the bed, flipping a hyper Fiyero upside down and wrestling gently with him; a particularly rough flip provoked a yelp from Fiyero, who turned around and climbed into Kurt's lap, nuzzling his hand and shooting a far-too-human glare back at Finn.

"So everyone knows what to do in case of emergency?" Burt and Carole were quick to reassure her, and Finn gave a mock salute, which made Kurt let out a tiny and embarrassing snort; Cartell shook her head at him and followed their parents up the stairs.

Kurt tugged on Fiyero's ears lightly; the puppy rolled over in the dip of his crossed legs and exposed his belly to Kurt, who scratched it, a small, pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Kurt?"

Kurt's smile grew as Fiyero's leg started twitching against his belly, "Yes, Finn?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

Kurt lifted his head, his smile fading.

Sometimes, Kurt forgot that even with everything Finn had gone through with Quinn and Puck and then Rachel and Jesse, he was just a naïve teenager with disproportionately large dreams. Finn wasn't fragile–he'd taken more hits in the past football season than anyone else on the team–but seeing him look so pathetically sad and hopeful broke Kurt's heart; they were both kids and this–Kurt's illness disrupting their new family–was not fair, and it was definitely not fair that it fell to Kurt to reassure him.

Fiyero flipped back over in his lap and settled his head on his front paws, draped across Kurt's legs, "Finn, I–I'm going to be fine." Finn's face remained unsure, so he reached out and placed his hand over Finn's where it rested on his own leg. Kurt smiled; Finn's very mild homophobia seemed to have disappeared completely. "They caught it early and as I'm quite young, I have higher chances than most. Please, Finn, just… Don't worry, please."

Finn nodded, looking like he was about to cry, and then turned his hand up and wrapped it around Kurt's.

* * *

When Finn had given him the puppy, he'd said it was because he thought everybody would try and take care of him, but Kurt hadn't thought much of it.

Now, Kurt was propped up in bed, watching Quinn bustle around his room. It hurt to see her like this; as soon as she'd come over she'd started treating him like a fragile doll–a baby–and considering she'd given her own child up barely a month ago, he didn't have the heart to tell her to stop. He also didn't have the heart to tell her that he was exhausted and sore and he just wanted her to stop moving because it was giving him a headache.

Mercedes was sitting on the floor by his bed, flipping through a magazine and ignoring Quinn, who kept making small noises in the back of her throat and glancing at Mercedes as if she expected her to get up and join the ten-second tidy.

"So how's it going with you and Puck, Quinn?"

Quinn tittered from her place atop Kurt's desk chair, balanced precariously and dusting a picture on the wall, "We're off again. Puck and I bonded over the baby, sure, but we both knew we'd never work out. Maybe if I was still the bitch I used to be, we could make it work." She leapt down from the chair gracefully and sat down at the end of his bed, lifting his feet and dropping them back down into her lap, "Besides, I think he's crushing on someone else."

Kurt laughed as Mercedes whipped around, "Spill, girl."

Quinn just started rubbing Kurt's feet, smiling down at them, "I don't know _who _it is," she emphasized, "but I walked in on him and his yearbook, so I'm sure it's a real person and not a celebrity. That is all I know."

Mercedes frowned, mumbling, "For somebody who used to be queen bee, you suck at gossiping."

"I've never enjoyed gossiping," Quinn pointed out, "And now that I'm not queen bee, it's not expected."

A door slammed upstairs; Mercedes went back to her magazine and Kurt went back to detailing the events of musical theatre history for Quinn. Puck and Finn came downstairs, followed by Fiyero, who was dragging his leash behind him and kept lifting his paws too high to avoid stepping on it.

"Hello boys." Kurt smiled at them. Quinn wiggled her fingers distractedly as she reached across the bed to grab one of the magazines Mercedes had brought. Finn grumbled under his breath, stomping to the couch and collapsing on it. Puck laughed, leaning down to unclip the leash and run his hand over the puppy's head.

"Finn may have stepped in dog shit."

* * *

"Are you alright?" Rachel was sitting in the chair beside his bed, tilted back against the wall.

"Well, I could be better." He smiled at her and she laughed quietly, eyes darting about the room. He watched her for a little while, trying not to be offended by her cardigan, before muting the movie they were watching, "Rachel, is something wrong?"

Her eyes widened minutely and she smiled, reaching down to straighten the hem of her shirt, "Yes, actually. I thought that… maybe… you might need somebody to talk to?" She trailed off, looking confused and unsure of herself.

"Not that I don't want to talk to you, but I do have Mercedes and my dad and even Finn is capable of listening." He leaned back against his pillows and she followed his movement, scooting to the side of her seat and angling her body towards him.

"Yeah, but all of them are just as devastated as you."

"And you're not." Kurt raised his eyebrow swiftly, watching her lean back in surprise.

"That's not what I meant. I just meant that those people are closer to you than I am, but if you need somebody to talk to that can listen objectively and give you opinions without breaking down, I feel like I have sufficient life experience to be the type of friend you really need during this traumatic and frightening time for you."

"Rachel, I'm fine."

She reached out and closed her fingers around his wrist, which was reaching for the remote again, "Kurt, you shouldn't have to be strong for them. You should be able to break down and cry and scream at the unfairness of this."

"Rachel, I–" He broke off, trying to summon words to convince her he was okay, "I… I think I'm going to be sick."

If he wasn't about to puke, he might have laughed at the horror that dawned in her features. Terrified, she lunged, grabbing the bin that was meant for this purpose and pushing it in front of him. She moved so she was sitting on the side of his bed and rubbed his back while he threw up. When he'd finished, she brought his toothbrush out and held the bin away from his face until he was ready to spit; she took it into the bathroom and washed it out while he settled back into his pillows and closed his eyes.

The water turned off and he heard her come back.

"That's it. Move over." She kept her hands on her hips while he gaped at her and crossed his arms; finally, he sighed and moved over. She situated herself beside him and dug her arm in behind him even though he pressed his body backwards to make it difficult for her. She turned the volume back on and the soft guitar strumming of "One Song Glory" resumed.

Kurt fought the urge to lean against her for a long time, finally resting his head on her shoulder as "Take Me or Leave Me" started. She kept her arm firm around him as his whole body crumpled and wetness flooded from under his closed eyelids.

"I'm sorry. I just–I have to be strong for my dad and for Finn." He let out an abrupt sob, sounding mildly hysterical, "It's not fair that Finn's such a baby."

Rachel laughed, smiling down at him, "You don't have to tell me about Finn's less-than-ideal maturity level." She squeezed his shoulders tightly; Kurt didn't seem to mind when she pressed a quick kiss against the side of his head.

* * *

Kurt had told his dad to turn away most of his friends because he'd been throwing up at least twice an hour, but Quinn and Mercedes were refusing to leave. Mercedes had not moved from his side all day, wiping the sweat off his forehead and supplying fresh sticks of gum that didn't make him gag; Quinn was braving the task of cleaning out the bin every time he felt he could go without it for a while.

"Stop apologizing, Kurt, you have a visitor."

Kurt looked up from the bin, dodging Mercedes hand, which was trying to force a thermometer into his mouth.

"Hi, Mr. Schue," It sounded like Kurt had been chewing on gravel. He tried to smile at his teacher, grimacing and pulling the bin towards him again. He waited a moment for it to subside and then glanced back at Schue, "You didn't pick a great day to come, but it's nice to see you."

Quinn pulled a chair over for Schue to sit down and grabbed the thermometer from Mercedes. She grabbed Kurt's chin in her hand and turned it up to face her, "Open up, you stubborn boy." He groaned but obeyed anyway, letting her slide the thermometer under his tongue.

Their teacher watched, amused, as Quinn held his mouth closed around the device. He glared at Quinn, looking considerably unthreatening with his washed out skin and sweat-drenched hair. He could feel Mercedes twining her fingers around his clammy hand.

The thermometer beeped and Quinn removed it, allowing Kurt to fall back against the pillows with a moan, "98, Kurt. If you increase 2.5 degrees we're taking you to the hospital. We'll take it again in fifteen minutes."

Kurt rolled his eyes, "Yes, mom." Quinn had sat down on the end of his bed, pulling her feet up and sitting Indian style at the very end; she stiffened noticeably at the nickname, her face tight. Kurt turned to Mr. Schue, his voice forcibly cheerful, "Thanks for coming, Mr. Schue!"

He glanced sideways at Quinn, who twisted her thumbs together in her lap, before he spoke, "I wanted to see how you were doing."

Kurt didn't answer, falling over the bin and emptying the little amount of water he'd managed to swallow into the bin. Mercedes squeezed his hand, reaching up to brush the hair back from his eyes, "He's not doing so great today, but I'm pretty sure this is the worst it's been all week."

"How much longer is…" Schue trailed off as Kurt's heaving transformed into a coughing fit, "How long is the treatment?"

Quinn grabbed the bin from him and left to clean it. Her voice drifted out from the bathroom over the sound of running water, "He started on Monday morning and this therapy is a week straight, so he's got three days left and then a couple weeks off before he's back on."

Kurt groaned, dropping a hand dramatically over his eyes, "Please, can we talk about Glee or school? Anything besides how much longer my body must continue being destroyed by chemicals?"

* * *

_Reviews are love._


	6. Chapter 5

Burt kneeled down beside his son's bed, gently brushing hair up off his cheek. "Hey kiddo," Kurt opened his eyes, blearily trying to focus on Burt's face, and Burt struggled to keep his voice smooth, "How you doing?"

"I'm tired."

Burt let his hand rest gingerly against his son's cheek and leaned forward to press their foreheads together for a moment, "I know, Kurt." Kurt closed his eyes again, "Love you, kid."

Burt leaned back, resting painfully on his knees and watching Kurt's face relax into unconsciousness. He tugged the blanket up to cover Kurt's thin shoulders and the tube running from under his collarbone to the device on his bedside table. He traced his finger along Kurt's jaw, simultaneously adoring and despising the way he looked like a carbon copy of his mother; she'd taken to the medication well, just like Kurt, but only for the first round.

"He's going to be fine."

Burt stood slowly, trying not to wake his son. He fought to keep the warning tone out of his voice, but he could feel it thicken the air in the room, "You don't know that, Carole."

"I do," she took a step forward, pulling him forward and kissing him on the lips. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, whispering against the skin of neck, "He's a strong kid, Burt, and Dr. Cartell says–"

He shook his head, "I don't care what the doctor says. They said the same thing about Kate, and Kurt gets that strength from her." It pained him to bring up his late wife to Carole; neither of them brought up their dead spouses to each other–neither wanted to breach the subject of how much love remained, how much pain.

"Burt, listen to me." She pushed against him lightly, pulling back to press her hands to either side of his head, "He's going to be fine and you need to stop being so goddamn pessimistic or I swear, I will withhold sex from you."

His shoulders shook as he kissed her again, but he smiled against her lips and she knew they'd be okay.

* * *

Kurt rolled onto his stomach, reaching up to pull the pillow over his head.

The doorbell rang again. Fiyero sat up on his bed, whining and pawing at the back of Kurt's thigh.

"Finn, get up."

He heard a low groan from across the room, where Finn had fallen asleep on the couch in his room, as the doorbell echoed through the house. Fiyero climbed onto Kurt's back and sat down, howling at the ceiling.

"Kurt, shut your dog up."

Fiyero trailed out of his howl to bark at Finn, and then went back to howling. Kurt peeked out from under the pillow, "Finn, shut your friends up."

"How do you know they're not your friends?" He was grumbling, but Kurt ignored him; he could hear Finn throwing the covers off. Fiyero leapt off Kurt, using him as a springboard and following Finn up the stairs, yapping happily.

The doorbell rang three times in quick succession and then the house was quiet.

Kurt woke minutes later to somebody poking him in the shoulder. He cracked an eye open, wincing when the light turned on in his room, and Mike poked him again, "Get up, get up, get up."

"Mike, kindly remove yourself from my personal space and explain why you're shaking a cancer patient awake."

"You're not doing the chemo thing right now and you've been feeling okay for two days," Matt was lounging in his egg-chair, running his hand along the inside of it curiously, "So we figured we could all go to the mall and then bowling or something?"

Kurt sat up. Finn shrugged when Kurt fixed him with a bitchy stare, "Hey, they're _our _friends."

Puck came out of Kurt's walk-in closet, holding several pieces of clothing. Kurt clucked his tongue, allowing his frown to morph into a cheeky grin, "Coming out of the closet, Puckerman?" Matt and Mike started laughing.

"Ha-ha, Hummel." He held the clothes out in front of him, "I figured these would be fine. This is your favorite shirt, right?"

"I just woke up!" Kurt ignored the question, choosing not to let Puck know that it was, in fact, his favorite shirt. "I've been off treatment for less than a week and my immune system is nearly non-existent!" He looked around and none of the boys looked like they really cared about either thing; none of them said anything, but they'd all noticed how his lack of sleep had come before his recovery. "Do I even get to shower?"

Finn shook his head, "If I don't, you don't. Plus, you showered last night _and _you have been feeling okay the past couple days. There's no way we're letting you sit at home when you could be out having fun."

* * *

"Does anybody want a drink?" Kurt had to call out over the music–apparently their bowling alley had glow-bowling on Saturday's–so everybody would hear him; Rachel, Mike, Matt, and Tina rattled off what they wanted, so Kurt stood up.

"Need help?" Puck, who had just finished his turn, leapt from his chair. Finn directed a half-hearted confused look his way, too busy trying to get Rachel to hold his hand to really pay attention.

Quinn jumped from her seat as well, but Puck pushed her back down and followed after Kurt, calling over his shoulder, "We got this."

Kurt ordered while Puck browsed through the candy, trying to guess which would be Kurt's favorite. When he turned back, chocolate bar in hand, he froze.

Kurt was mid-laugh, and the boy serving him was playing with the end of his scarf, smiling at Kurt through his eyelashes and speaking quietly to him.

Puck watched them laugh, glancing behind the guy. He'd finished filling all of their drinks and had left them there, forgotten on the counter. Finally–_finally_–Puck pulled himself from the jealousy–which had come out of nowhere but Puck was accustomed to randomly deciding he wanted somebody, so he wasn't going to bother fighting it. It would likely go away just like all of his other infatuations.

He squashed the jealousy down, preventing it's rampage through his body; he stormed over, resisting the urge to hip-check Kurt for flirting with this douche, and threw his arm around the sick boy.

He slapped a twenty down on the counter, "You gonna serve us, or what?"

The guy looked somewhere between offended and scared shitless, so when Puck made a shooing motion with his hand, he nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to deliver their drinks. He reached out, dropping the change–more than what the till was reading, but Puck was more than willing to accept the extra cash–into Puck's hand and stammering, "Enjoy your game!"

"We will." Kurt gathered three of the drinks into his arms and Puck grabbed the other half, making sure Kurt walked in front of him so the punk couldn't check out his ass. He had fully expected Kurt to ream him out for scaring the boy off, but when he handed Kurt his drink, Kurt whispered, "Thank you," to him.

Puck didn't question it, even though it sent his mind reeling–why was Kurt mad that he'd messed up his chances with a boy who actually seemed interested? He simply tucked his chin down against his chest and took a long sip from his drink to hide his smile.

* * *

Kurt let the water run over his head, closing his eyes and embracing the warmth. A fleeting sense of dizziness had swept through him a moment before, so his hand was wrapped firmly around the handle his dad had installed; he'd been fine for three days, so he'd known it was only a matter of time before he had a new infection.

He turned off the water, stepping out and spitting phlegm into the toilet. He put his foot on the bathmat, feeling the shag fold under his toes, and then off of it, onto the cold tile.

He heard the squeak of his heel against the slippery floor and threw his hand forward in time to catch the edge of the counter and the cloth that sat beside the sink. He fell, twisting his body so he landed hard on his left side; he pulled the hand towel off the counter and several hair product bottles tumbled to the floor in a series of crashes.

He lay still a moment, rolling onto his back and feeling the cool blow of the air conditioner on his bare skin.

He felt weak. Helpless. Afraid. He despised himself for becoming everything he'd sworn he'd never become; he felt pathetic.

He might have lain there all night, but Carole was already pounding down the steps into the basement. He struggled to sit up as he heard her approach, but he could barely lift his arm to secure his towel around his waist.

She knocked quickly, "Kurt, sweetie, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Carole. I just–dropped something." He reached up, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the counter. He managed to pull his torso off the floor before his arm started quivering. His weight was too much; his hand slipped again and he dropped.

He moaned, too loud, as his head collided with the floor and Carole's voice demanded, "Kurt, you have to let me help you."

"Go away," he hissed, covering his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Sweetie, you have to let me help you! If you hurt your–"

"Go away, Carole!"

She didn't say anything else, but a moment later, he could hear the telltale scratching behind the doorknob that signalled she was trying to break in.

He wanted to scream and cry–beg her to leave him alone–but he could hear the blood rushing in his ears and he knew, instinctively, that the chances of him managing to make it to his feet on his own were slim.

The door swung open behind him; he lay still as she let out a breathless, "Oh, Kurt," before stepping over him and standing above him, one leg on either side of his legs.

She leaned down, hooking her wrists under his armpits and lifting. He kept one hand on the towel around his waist, and the other came up to clench at the fabric on Carole's shoulder. She had to half-carry him to his bed; they were forced to stop in the middle of the room so he could catch his breath.

She lowered him down on the side of his bed and moved away, collecting a fresh pair of boxers and a set of pyjamas. She put them down beside him and watched his eyes flutter shut, "Do you need help?" He shook his head, slow and detached, so she took a few steps away, turning her back to him and shuffling through the papers on Kurt's desk.

He managed to pull on the lower half of his clothing, but when he went to slide his left arm into a sleeve, his entire body protested. His stomach cramped painfully and his arm sent a vicious jab of pain shooting up through his shoulder and down his spine, making him gasp.

Carole was at his side in an instant, cautiously pressing two fingers against his side and watching for a reaction. He hissed in pain. She repeated the process up the rest of his left side and on his arm, pretending each wince on his pale face didn't break her heart.

"Sorry, sweetie. You're going to have some nice bruises tomorrow." She lifted his arm gently, pulling the sleeve up and over his shoulder and helping him button it up when his hands shook too badly to secure the shirt.

"Carole, I'd really like to be alone right now." He kept his eyes down. His voice was weary, defeated–he knew what she must be thinking: that he was embarrassed, sad, ashamed. He was, but more than anything else, he was angry. Angry at himself for being weak, for not being able to handle a little warm water, for needing Carole to help him get dressed like a child.

"Kurt, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's not–"

He looked up at her, pleading, "Please. You don't have to go away but please don't tell me what to feel."

She sat down next to him; the dip in the bed was much deeper than his and something in his chest tightened, "Kurt, I know you hate this, but you have to let us help you if you need it," he sniffed, turning his head to stare at her, "We–Burt, Finn, and I–we all love you, Kurt. It hurts when you don't want our help.

"I know I can never replace your mom, but I'm going to love you no matter what–and not just because I love your Dad. You're a great kid, Kurt–brave, confident, talented, and so full of love."

She stood up, and then turned to bend down and press a soft kiss to his forehead; he knew that words would fail him, so he simply leaned into her touch and sighed. Her lips quivered into a sad smile against his skin and she whispered, "Love you, Kurt."

It made him even more ashamed of himself when he couldn't bring himself to say it back.

* * *

_Reviews are love. _

_Also, here's the url for a picture of Fiyero, since I forgot to add it to the last two chapters:_

_www . dogbreedsaz . com / wp-content / uploads / 2010 / 03 / 2264 0388 2005 2406 660S 500x 500Q 85 . jpg_


	7. Chapter 6

The squeak seemed to echo through the room. Kurt took his hands off the railing on the side of the bed and stared at the wall.

"You okay?"

He curled his arms up, letting his hands rest on the pillow just under his head, "I'm fine, Finn."

"You're allowed to be nervous, but the squeaking is getting to me."

"I know," Kurt sighed, fighting the urge to spread his legs out, "I wish my dad could've come." Finn leaned back in his chair, breathing out slowly through his nose, "I'm sorry. It's not that I don't want you here, but–"

"Kurt, it's okay. I get it." Finn's hand settled on his arm and squeezed once, firm and comforting, and then released it, "I'd want my mom."

"Can you feel that?" Kurt shook his head; there was very little feeling in his lower back and the nurse or doctor started fiddling with something on the tray behind Kurt's head, "Alright, we've numbed the area as much as possible, but you might feel a little discomfort."

Finn made a big show of stretching his fingers and then reached out and twined Kurt's fingers through his, "Just squeeze if you need to." Kurt smiled tightly at Finn, who grinned sheepishly down at him, "This is kind of cool."

"Excuse me?" Kurt intoned, "Did you just imply that my getting a lumbar puncture is cool?"

Finn blanched, "No! No way, dude. I just mean–I always wanted a little brother, and now I'm like, taking you to doctor's appointments and looking after you and making you food and bringing you homework and–"

"I get it, Finn, but you do know you're barely a month older than me, right?"

Finn was avidly reading a poster on the wall, and when Kurt glanced up it was a diagram of how to perform a breast exam on yourself, complete with instructional images. He was nodding absently in response to Kurt, obviously not paying attention. Kurt hissed, tightening his fingers around Finn's hand, and the taller boy turned back to him, looking guilty, "Man, are you okay?" Kurt nodded, letting his eyes close and fighting the mixed guilt and satisfaction. "Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, Finn."

"Has Rachel said anything about me to you?"

Kurt opened his eyes; Finn was chewing on his bottom lip worriedly, holding it in his mouth with the hand that wasn't holding Kurt's. "What do you mean?"

Kurt fought the urge to roll his eyes when Finn started in on one of his characteristic rants, "Well, we're sort of dating again and I told her I love her at Regionals so I kind of thought everything was okay but she's been acting really distant and not-Rachel and it's more confusing than usual, which is saying something because Rachel uses big words like you do and I have to look them up after and she never asks me over to her house or tries to hold my hand. I always have to grab her hand or force her to stay still long enough so I can kiss her and it's so annoying and I figured maybe Rachel had talked to you because she hangs out with you and stuff." He stopped, and Kurt watched, amused, as he sucked in a huge breath, "So… Did she?"

"Are you finished?" When Finn nodded, Kurt continued, "Well, how have you been treating her?"

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong! I listen to everything she says and some of the time I understand it all, but she wants me to be honest and then she looks hurt when I am and I mean, I should probably tell her I love her again cause Rachel needs to hear things like, a hundred times before she believes them and–"

Kurt squeezed Finn's hand to cut him off, "Let me get this straight. You haven't told her you love her since Regionals, which was nearly two months ago now?" Finn nodded, and Kurt fought a smile as pink filled the tall boy's cheeks, "And I'm not sure what you mean by honesty, but I've heard you call her annoying, obsessive, bossy, irritating, controlling, and crazy, all in the past two weeks."

Finn was avoiding Kurt's eyes now, and his voice was unnaturally quiet. "Well, she told me to tell her the truth."

"Dear Gucci, you have got to be joking." Kurt lifted the hand that was still on the pillow and pressed two of his fingers against his eyelids, "Tell her the truth about the big things, Finn, but for the love of Prada, don't tell her she's being annoying, even though Rachel is notoriously bothersome. Tell her she's sweet, or pretty, or talented–she loves hearing that."

* * *

Kurt had been under the impression that after planning a very romantic date for Finn to make it up to Rachel for being Finn that it would be the last he would hear of their relationship.

"So that stuff you told me really helped. I touched her hair a lot and told her how much I liked it and the date thing worked like a charm." Finn stopped to compare two bags of bread and then shrugged, tossing both into the cart that Kurt was leaning heavily on, "Like a charm, dude. I mean, Rachel actually, you know…" Finn trailed off, trying to lift his eyes suggestively and bringing his hands up to gesture.

Kurt swatted his hands down, pushing the cart past him and towards the meat section, "No, I don't know, and I don't want to, Finn." Finn watched as Kurt picked through some packaged meat, "I'm glad it all worked out between the two of you, really, but I'd rather not hear about the intimate moments. I'm also going to assume that Rachel would prefer if you kept those details private."

"Thanks, though. Everything's really awesome now."

"You're welcome." Kurt stopped at the hotdogs, "Which one do you like?"

Finn glanced down, "Doesn't matter."

Kurt bent down to pick one up, waving it in front of Finn's face and grimacing when the smell hit him, "These things are disgusting and I cannot believe your mother allows you to eat them."

Finn's hand lunged out and grabbed the package from Kurt and he threw it into the cart. Kurt turned, rolling his eyes, and grabbed the handles of the cart, making his way towards dairy. Finn walked past him and started examining the various juices while Kurt peeking into several egg cartons to check for cracks.

As Finn was coming back, he stopped, glancing past Kurt with a confused look on his face. He shook his head and took the last two steps to their cart, where Kurt was putting two egg cartons in the top compartment. Kurt opened his mouth and his yawn punctuated Finn's name, "Finn, what's left on the list?"

"Tired, I'm guessing." Kurt nodded. He glanced down at the crumpled list in his hand, "Well, just some pop for me and your dad, but we could live without it if you want… What the hell?" They had slowly been walking away from the dairy section and Finn threw his hand down to stop the cart, making Kurt jerk forward in surprise.

Kurt glanced behind them, following Finn's now surprisingly angry glare, and they landed on a man wearing the grocery store uniform placing several cartons of eggs in a cart. The man was wearing gloves and he glanced up at them, wearing an expression of pure disgust, "Finn, don't do anything stupid. Please. Can we just leave?" Finn didn't answer him; he kept his gaze focused on the man down the aisle, who was watching them stand there, "Finn, leave it."

Finn shook his head and shook Kurt's hand off, which has settled on his upper arm and was pulling gently to try and break Finn from his trance. He stormed past and Kurt followed, abandoning the cart.

"Hey!" The man, who Kurt could now see was wearing a "Manager" tag, pulled his cart back in an attempt to escape. Finn stopped him, grabbing the cart and pulling it back towards him, "What are you doing?"

The man sneered at Finn; Kurt expected him to deny it, but he felt himself gasp as the man started talking, "I will not have that freak contaminating my customers."

"You're serious!" Finn's voice was too loud and the people around them stopped browsing, trying to listen, "You're an asshole!"

"Finn!"

"No, Kurt, he's a jerk," Finn stared at the man's face, unyielding and unfriendly, and then glanced back at Kurt, who didn't have time to wipe the tears from his face, "You know what, I'm not going to bother arguing with this jerk." He reached into the cart and grabbed some of the eggs, opening the carton, "These aren't even cracked, Kurt, I don't know _what _you were thinking," and he tilted the carton upside down.

Kurt watched the eggs fall and explode on the floor in what felt like slow motion. The manager's face was livid, and Finn leaned forward as much as he dared over the mess of eggs on the floors, "I think we'll take our grocery list somewhere else." He took a step backward and grabbed Kurt's arm, practically dragging him from the store.

"You really did not need to do that, Finn."

Finn adjusted his arm, dropping his hand and moving it up to rest on Kurt's shoulder, "Look Kurt, I know you think I've done enough to apologize for what I said during Gaga week, but I can never forgive myself for that. I need to protect you from what I can, because..." Finn's eyes dropped to Kurt's collarbone and he stayed silent, so Kurt took a step forward and wrapped his arms loosely around Finn's torso.

Finn's arms came up around him and he closed his eyes.

* * *

"What's all that crap?"

Kurt glanced away from his magazine for barely a second to follow Puck's gesture, "It's not 'crap,' Noah. It's a manicure set; I gave Quinn one earlier."

Puck appreciated that Kurt had dropped the "I'm-better-and-smarter-than-you-and-I-know-it" tone around Puck, and due to his boredom and Kurt's apparent state of being bedridden for the entire week of treatment, Puck said something he never imagined he'd say, "You want to give me a manicure?"

Kurt blinked up at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion, "I'm sorry, I think my fever must have spiked and is causing hallucinations. I could have sworn that you just offered to let me give you a manicure."

"Whatever, dude, if you're good doing magazine quizzes, I'm good just–"

"Hands." Kurt let his magazine slide off his lap and onto the floor, leaning forward and making grabbing motions with his own hands; Fiyero lifted his head as the magazine landed next to him and nudged the open pages.

Kurt was already doing something with Puck's nails. He curled his fingers under his palms and pulled his hands away from Kurt, "This isn't gonna take too long, right? Cause I've got my fight club in an hour and a half."

Kurt was bouncing slightly with excitement, and he tried to grab Puck's hand again, "I can assure you that this will not take an hour and a half." Thin fingers brushed along his hand lightly and pulled it forward; Puck watched Kurt's eyes drop back to his rough hands, "Don't take your hands away again."

"Demanding," Puck teased, "I like it."

Kurt made a face but didn't say anything about Puck's flirting. Puck had noticed that: whenever Puck made a comment that suggested he might be interested in Kurt, the other boy would avoid the subject, "So what do you do at this 'fight club.' Besides the obvious."

Puck cleared his throat, straightening his back as much as he could with Kurt's hand locking his into place, and recited: "The first rule about Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club."

Kurt pinched the flesh on the side of Puck's pinky, "Don't be impertinent."

"Dude, I have no idea what that means. Have you never seen Fight Club?' His hand twitched slightly, now resting palm up in Kurt's hand, "You know, like, the best movie ever?"

Puck caught the edges of a faint smile fading as Kurt reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes; his eyes lingered on Kurt's hair, which Quinn had mentioned was starting to thin. Kurt hadn't seemed to have noticed and if he had, Puck was sure he hadn't talked about it yet, "Sorry, I've never heard of it."

"You've never–But it's, like–" Puck sputtered indignantly, "How can you not have even heard of it?" Kurt shrugged and Puck mused casually, "Well, I'll have to bring it by to watch sometime."

Kurt let out a short, breathless laugh, "I don't think 'Fight Club' sounds like my type of movie, Noah, but thank you for the offer."

"Ed Norton and Brad Pitt are shirtless and sweaty a lot."

Kurt's hand paused over his. His eyes darted up, too fast, and then back down. His voice was playful, lightly teasing, "Shirtless and sweaty, you say?"

Puck nodded, even though Kurt wasn't looking at his face, "There's loads of other dudes, too."

"Well, I _may_ be able to suffer through it."

* * *

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	8. Chapter 7

Kurt was making himself a huge breakfast–he'd gotten his appetite back for the first time in weeks–when it happened.

As he was rolling sausages absently around in the pan, he ran a weak hand through his bangs and several strands fell away. He backed away from the stove; staring at the hair in between his fingers and feeling the hunger dissipate quicker than it had come. He reached up again and moaned when more hair came away with his hand.

He dropped the hair on the table, washed his hands and then turned off all the appliances he had turned on. He sat heavily at the kitchen table, focused very hard on not fiddling with his hair–a nervous habit of his. He stared at the small metal case on the table, exactly where his Dad had left it. Kurt knew what was inside; his Dad had told him three nights before.

An electric razor, rarely used, that Burt had bought when Kurt's mom had started to lose her hair. It was one of his earliest memories: he sat, in the chair he was in now, and watched his dad shave his mom's head. He vividly recalled watching each chunk of hair drift to the floor, and he was fairly certain that was the first time–and one of few times, including the times since Kurt himself had been diagnosed–he'd seen his dad cry.

He'd known it was coming. He'd seen the way his friends had been staring at his hair; felt the subtle thinning on his already fair hair. The problem was: Kurt didn't want to watch his hair fall out in the mirror for days or weeks, but he didn't want to shave his head. He sighed, pulling the case towards him and meticulously arranging the various parts on the table in front of him.

Instead of putting the necessary pieces together, he left them arranged by size on the table and stood up. He spent a long time cleaning the pan he'd been scrambling eggs in and wrapping up the sausages to store them in the fridge. He was scrubbing the toaster when the doorbell rang.

When he got to the door, running a dish towel over his hands, he opened it to Puck's grin; the other boy held up his promised movie and a giant bottle of Kurt's favorite brand of apple juice.

Kurt stared blankly at the slanted writing on the DVD case in Puck's hand until it dropped. "I forgot you were coming today."

Puck shrugged, toeing off his shoes and closing the door behind him, "I promised half naked dudes, didn't I?"

It took Kurt too long to collect himself. He stared at Puck's head, where a layer of thick, dark hair had grown back from when he'd been forced to shave it off a few months before. Puck waved a hand in front of Kurt's blank stare, "Dude, you're freaking me out."

Kurt blinked, lowering his gaze to meet Puck's concerned brown eyes, "Can you do something for me?"

Puck looked skeptical, but he nodded, "Uh, sure. Anything you need."

Kurt turned, moving briskly back into the kitchen, where the razor was neatly laid out on the table and a chunk of Kurt's hair was sitting innocently beside it, dark against the stark white surface. Puck exhaled loudly.

Kurt gestured vaguely at the table, "It started falling out this morning, and I–" Kurt sighed, sitting down at the table, "I don't want to watch it fall out. I just want to… get it over with, you know?"

"Yeah, I get it." Puck started to put the razor together and reached down to grab the smock that came with the kit and Kurt reached up to grab his forearm.

"Thanks, Puck. This–It really means a lot to me."

Puck laughed, keeping his mind focused on putting the razor together and not Kurt's long fingers wrapped around his arm. His first instinct was to flex his muscles, but he kept his arm relaxed as Kurt released him, "Well, if it'll make you feel better, you can shave mine after."

* * *

"Whoa, you shaved your head again."

Puck was pouring two glasses of juice in the Hummel's kitchen. He turned, chugging down a mouthful and shrugging at Finn, who had started to dig through the fridge, "I shaved Kurt's today. I let him shave mine because he seemed upset about it."

Finn nodded, watching Puck refill his own glass, "So you really like him, then?"

Puck snorted, thankful that he wasn't still drinking, because he would've spat it everywhere, "What?"

"Dude, you hate sick people," Puck opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Finn kept going, "Plus you sit with him no matter where we're going and now you let him shave your head. You guys seem pretty close, that's all."

"I don't–Shut up, Finn."

Finn blinked at him, turning his head to the side awkwardly, "Okay, so I meant you guys were getting close as friends, but I'm starting to think it's a little more than that, which explains why you didn't notice Santana and Brittany making out hardcore at the bowling alley."

"Santana and Britt made out?" Puck forced a smarmy grin onto his face and made a lewd gesture with his hands.

A ridiculously smug smile was spreading across Finn's face, "I know you, Puck. Try and distract me all you want, but I _know_ you. I think Santana has noticed too." Puck's mouth dropped in surprise, "Not that she talked to me about it, but I heard her telling Brittany that the only reason she's not getting all possessive is because she thinks you genuinely like him. I assumed she meant as friends, but I think she knows you better than I do sometimes."

Puck glanced towards the stairs, and then grabbed the glasses, "Shut the fuck up, Finn."

Finn's laugh followed him down the stairs and he swore, wondering who the hell decided it was a good idea to have a best friend who knows you better than you know yourself.

* * *

"You need to stop babying him."

Kurt was sleeping. Quinn was sitting beside him, holding a thermometer in his mouth, and Puck was sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing tug-of-war with Fiyero, who was now about an inch or so taller than Kurt's knees. He was also watching Quinn fuss around Kurt's bed, a small frown on his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Quinn took her hands back from where they were straightening Kurt's blankets and she plucked the thermometer from Kurt's mouth. Puck watched her stare at the thin white stick for a moment; she began swiping a sanitizing wipe over it obsessively, "Kurt is sick and it's only natural that, as his friends, we want to take care of him."

"_Yeah_," Puck drew it out as she turned around and started doing something he couldn't see, "But everybody else is acting like his _friend_. Finn is protective because he's gone all big brother on us, Mercedes is the same as usual and I think Rachel is being less self-centered than usual, but you're treating him like a baby."

Quinn turned back to him, and her face had morphed into something he hadn't seen for a long time. At least not since she'd been in a Cheerio's uniform; she changed her face somehow to make herself seem threatening and she leveled a glare at him that made his fingers slacken on the chew toy.

Fiyero ripped it from his hands and retreated to the other side of the room; he settled down and started tearing thin strips of rope off and pawing them out of his mouth.

"I'm not having _you_, of all people, talk to me about babying him. Because yes, maybe I'm treating him like a child," she still looked livid, but tears were spilling down her delicate cheeks and Puck felt his breath catch, because how many girls–and Kurt–were going to decide it was okay to cry in front of him?

"But you have no right to call me out on that. I just gave up a _child_, Puck. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me?" Puck opened his mouth, because yeah, he did, Beth was his kid too, but Quinn changed tactics, her quivering lips curling into a sneer, "What is _wrong_ with you, Puck?"

"Uh... What?" Puck started to stand up, pulling himself up.

"Do you just prey on whoever you think is the most vulnerable?" Puck straightened fully; his eyebrows curled together angrily, "I thought you couldn't stoop any lower, but apparently you can."

"What the hell are you talking about, Quinn?" Puck was trying hard to regain his footing in the conversation. She'd thrown him with whatever the hell this was.

"I'm talking about you–You seduce the most vulnerable person you can find and you never feel bad about it," her eyes had widened crazily and she gestured wildly with her hands, "First, you get your best friend's girl knocked up and leave him in the dark about it–"

"That was your choice!"

"Second, you go after the girl your best friend likes but can't have because he has a pregnant girlfriend," she snorted, smirking cruelly at him, "and you leave her in the dust after barely a week. Third, you go after Mercedes, who had just had a personal weight-crisis, and now? Now, you're going after Kurt, who's never had anyone into him and has just had his heart broken–"

"Whoa, Quinn–"

"I really thought you couldn't sink any lower, but going after a cancer patient, Puck? That's low, even for you."

Puck stared at her, struggling and failing to come up with something to throw back at her, "I get that you're defensive about the mom thing, but there's no way I deserved all that." He sighed, moving past her, "I don't need this. Let me know when you've calmed down."

He stormed past her, ignoring her spitting "Creep," at him as he climbed the stairs.

Quinn waited until he had closed the front door before letting herself sit gently on the edge of Kurt's bed; she stared at the stairs and let the tears stream down her face, pulling Kurt's lax hand into her own and stroking it with her thumb.

* * *

"Okay, so even though she went totally bitch-crazy on you and you probably didn't really do anything to her, she's right." Puck rolled his eyes and Santana elbowed him in the side, even though she couldn't see his face from where she was laying next to him on the bed, "You know what I mean. You do tend to go for the weaklings, which, yeah, is a little weird."

"You're with Brittany, San."

"Okay, but Brittany is so not weak. You've seen her abs, Puck." Puck groaned, nodding as Santana lifted herself up to sit cross-legged against his wall, "What is it about her that makes me want to stop being a bitch just so I can cuddle with her?"

Puck leaned over, somehow managing to take a swig of the beer Santana had brought over without sitting up in bed, "Do I really need to answer that?"

"I'm not a rhetorical kind of girl." Santana plucked at the tab on the top of her can, "I was hoping for an answer, but considering you're in the same boat as me…" She trailed off, watching him roll over to glare at her.

He was sprawling across the bed, staring at the ceiling. His beer was balancing precariously on the end of his desk, "Shit, San. Did we turn each other gay?"

"Don't be stupid, Puck." They sat in companionable silence for a while; Santana tapped away at her cell phone, giggling every once in a while. Eventually, without looking up from the screen, she broke the quiet, "So when are you going to grow a pair and make a move?"

Puck stayed quiet for a while, biting his lip, "When he's better."

"Don't be stupid. What if he doesn't get better?"

Puck ignored her in favor of trying to fight off the crushing weight that had settled in his stomach as she'd spoke. The idea that Kurt wasn't going to make it hurt more than he cared to admit.

"Relax, Puck. Kurt's like, the strongest person I know." Santana laughed–inappropriate for their conversation, but he didn't feel obligated to point it out to her–shifting her foot out to kick him in the thigh before climbing over him and heading to the door. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching her, "Sorry, the wifey's calling. And don't worry about the gay thing either. We're both too awesome and too good in bed to limit ourselves to one sex. Although I still can't figure out why neither of us is sleeping around anymore." She waved her fingers at him, teasing and almost degrading, and then disappeared down the hallway.

He let himself fall back onto his pillows with a groan.

* * *

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	9. Chapter 8

"I feel like less of a man because Tina has to do all the hard, dirty, really awesome work." Kurt was leaning down, his hands resting on the handles of Artie's chair; Fiyero's leash was resting loosely around his wrist and the dog was trotting beside Artie's chair.

"I do not understand why people insist on coming to me for girl troubles." Kurt mumbled under his breath and Artie tilted his head back to look up at Kurt.

"Come again?"

"Nothing," Kurt stopped, letting him lean back to help Kurt lift his chair up onto the curb, "Maybe you should talk to Tina about this?"

"We have. I just–I don't know, needed a guy's opinion." Kurt didn't even try to fight the grin that spread across his face, "I mean, not that there's really anything for you to say, but I needed to vent my damage, man."

"I understand completely. Well, not completely, but I understand feeling like less of a man. I mean, just because I don't do the same things other boys do doesn't mean I'm not a boy."

"Preach, brother." Artie lifted a gloved hand in the air and Kurt reached one hand out to high-five him, "Thanks for walking me home, Kurt. It's kind of problematic getting up these stupid curbs." Artie started humming a song under his breath and Kurt struggled to place it, failing to realize Artie had trailed out of the song until he spoke up, "So what's the deal with you and Puck?"

Kurt smiled faintly, tugging Fiyero, who was pulling Kurt's hand off Artie's handles, back towards him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's been getting all up in your grill, but sneaky and shy, like I was before Tina and I started going out." He looked up at Kurt, who forced the smile off his face, "And hide it all you want, but you're practically radiating happiness. It's weird, and not only because you're supposed to _hate_ Puck."

"Artie, I can promise you that absolutely no romantic feelings are developing. And I'm pretty sure you're imagining Puck being 'all up in my grill' because Puck is the straightest boy in Lima, and that's saying something."

Artie snorted–Kurt half-expected him to argue that _he_ was the straightest boy in Lima–and reached over to pat Fiyero's head, "Keep telling yourself that, Kurtie."

* * *

On the way back to his own house, Kurt sat down on a bench in front of a children's playground for a while to enjoy the fresh air, and then glanced down at his dog, "Are you ready to go, Fiyero?"

When Fiyero climbed onto the bench and started gnawing on his leash, Kurt glanced up above his dog's head, absently scratching behind the dog's floppy ears; four men were walking down the street together. Kurt didn't expect that they were going to do or say anything to him, but he tended to avoid coming into close contact with strange men who may or may not be homophobic.

But there was no other way to go. Kurt glanced to the right–towards Artie's house–but that was counterproductive and if the men decided to chase him, he doubted he could outrun them. He stood up and turned towards the group of men, tilting his hat down and tugging Fiyero's leash so he leapt off the bench and started trotting in front of Kurt.

"Hey, check out the queer."

Kurt tried to move through the group, but they closed ranks around him; Fiyero whimpered and for some reason, Kurt focused on the sounds of a basketball being dribbled down the street, near the park.

"Look, I'm just trying to take my dog for a walk," Kurt hated that his voice was weary, that he didn't have the energy to throw the same acerbic wit as per his usual, "Can you let me through?"

One of the men stepped towards him, and Kurt stared up into his dark eyes as the man lifted his hand and shoved his shoulder. Kurt stumbled slightly, pushing into a man behind him, and a hand settled on his arm. He closed his eyes, braced for the worst, and then somebody shouted from a way off.

"Hey!" Kurt had no idea who his savior was, but he couldn't hear the basketball dribbling anymore, "Leave him alone!" Somebody cut through the men–somehow larger than all of them–and pushed in front of Kurt, "Back off, dudes." Kurt felt his breath rush out of him in a swift motion as he took in the number on the back of the McKinley letterman jacket in front of him.

Two of the men grumbled something and surprisingly, the other two followed and took off down the sidewalk again at a leisurely pace. Kurt's rescuer turned around and he tried to smile at him, "Uh, thanks."

"I saw you pass the courts and I knew these guys were hanging around," Karofsky's shoulder lifted in a shrug. The basketball was tucked under his right arm, "You need me to walk you home?"

For a minute, Kurt considered declining, but a ripple of cruel laughter echoed from down the street at them, "That would be nice, actually."

"Cool." Dave knelt down to rub Fiyero behind the ears, and then they turned, walking side-by-side, "Cool dog."

"Thanks. My dad and Finn got him for me, right after I…" Kurt trailed off, unsure of himself, "Right after my diagnosis."

"He's a Bernese, right?" Kurt nodded, turning around the corner and feeling Karofsky lean towards him to avoid running into a stop sign, "How's treatment going?"

Kurt glanced at him; he looked more at ease than Kurt had ever seen him. "It's okay, I guess. I get sick a lot, and I probably shouldn't be outside right now because my immune system is shot, but I figured I could walk Artie home and give Fiyero some exercise."

"Artie's the one in the wheelchair, right?"

"Uh, yeah." They turned around the last corner and Kurt spotted two people sitting on his front step, hunched over, "I think I see Finn and Puck, so if you wanted to go back, you could." Dave stopped, and Kurt turned towards him.

"Yeah, I guess," Dave swallowed, not really nervously. Kurt watched his Adam's apple bob, "Stay safe, Hummel, yeah?"

"Yeah." Dave turned and started back around the corner, slipping his free hand into the pocket of his jacket; the other was still curled around his basketball, "Thanks, Dave."

The other boy didn't respond and Kurt turned to finish walking home. When they got about three houses down from his house, Fiyero seemed to spot Finn so Kurt dropped the leash and his dog took off, leaping at Finn when he reached the lawn. Kurt watched them play as he approached, waving at Puck, who had to force himself to stop glaring at the spot where Karofsky had disappeared to wave back.

* * *

Puck slid down onto the couch beside Kurt, close enough that their sides pressed together. Kurt shifted a little, glancing over at Finn, who was sitting in his dad's old armchair and hammering away at a game controller, but didn't move away–Fiyero was sprawled across the rest of the couch, his head resting on Kurt's leg.

"When do you start treatment again?" Kurt had steadily been improving since he'd finished his first week of chemo, but Puck knew that he only had about three weeks off before they'd start up again.

"Saturday."

"You scared?" Kurt shrugged, his arm rubbing against Puck's as his arm lifted, and Puck cleared his throat, "Not that I'm making fun of you or anything."

"I didn't think you were."

Finn shouted, throwing his arms in the air as the level cleared and the awards he'd achieved started popping up one by one on the screen. He glanced at them, triumphant, and then turned back to start the next level.

Puck elbowed Kurt, "So who was the guy you were walking home with today?"

Kurt turned his head, lifting an eyebrow as he met Puck's gaze, "Karofsky," Kurt's eyes narrowed and the left side of his mouth twitched, "I thought you were angry because it was _Karofsky_."

Puck frowned, "What made you think that?"

"You were glaring when I got to the yard, and he wasn't even there anymore." Puck let his eyes slide back to the television screen and Kurt elbowed him back, "Were you jealous?"

Puck turned back to him, unflinching, "What if I was?"

Kurt blinked, letting his eyes drop to Puck's mouth; Puck's tongue darted out and wet his lips, "Puck, what–" Puck leaned forward and Kurt turned his head away, watching Finn tap furiously at a button on his controller as Puck's lips met the side of his jaw momentarily, and then Kurt lifted himself off the couch in a smooth motion, ignoring Puck's huff of what he assumed was either confusion or annoyance.

Fiyero groaned, blinking awake quickly and sitting up to watch Kurt wipe his hands down the smooth fabric of his Dolce shirt and then sliding off the couch to follow Kurt, who stopped in the doorway and looked back towards them, eyes fixed steadily on Finn.

"Would you guys like something to drink before I go to bed?" Puck rolled his eyes, trying to force Kurt to look at him with sheer mind power. Finn shook his head in the negative and Kurt nodded to himself, turning to go without waiting for Puck's response.

* * *

Kurt was sick for the first day of his second week of treatment. He spent the day tossing and turning and throwing up and groggily communicating with various people.

He was pretty sure he spent an hour being convinced of Puck's chivalry and other good qualities by Finn, but that could have been a dream, considering he'd also had a conversation about lettuce with a unicorn that Brittany brought over.

When his fever dropped low enough for his coherency to come back, his room was empty. He glanced at the clock: 8:42 p.m. He pulled himself out of bed, still half-asleep.

He was still rubbing his eyes when he found his dad, sitting on his bed with his head bowed and his shoulder's shaking. Kurt dropped his hand, switching his treatment dispenser, which he was carrying because he didn't have pockets, from one hand to the other, "Dad?"

Burt looked up, and Kurt felt a familiar stinging flare up behind his eyelids when he caught sight of his dad's face, tear-streaked and blotchy. He took another couple steps into the room and sat down beside his dad, letting his medication sit in his lap, "I didn't want you to see me like this, Kurt." His dad took a steadying breath; Kurt let his hand slide between them and threaded his fingers through his dad's.

"It's okay, dad."

"I know," Kurt watched a muscle in his dad's jaw twitch; another tear slipped from the corner of Burt's eye and ran down his cheek to drop off his cheek.

"I love you, kid, you know that." Kurt nodded, tightening his grip on his Dad's hand, "It's so hard to see you like this. It brings back so many memories of your mother. I can't lose you, Kurt."

Kurt sniffed, trying to contain his tears, and his voice came out low and breathy, "You won't. I'm fighting, dad, and you know me–nothing's gonna bring me down." His dad smiled, and Kurt almost wished Rachel was here to appreciate his subtle referencing.

His dad brought a hand up to touch Kurt's cheek, faltering as if he'd meant to brush Kurt's nonexistent hair out of the way; dropped his hand back down and Kurt leaned over, dropping his head onto his dad's shoulder.

* * *

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	10. Chapter 9

Kurt ran the edges of the blanket through his fingers, twisting it nervously around his pale hands. Puck sat a few feet away, on the other side of Finn, who was oblivious to the tension between the other two.

They were watching a movie, having spent the day pausing various video games so Kurt could flee to the bathroom, and Puck had been itching for Finn to disappear so he could talk to Kurt about the major denial he'd been given a few days before.

Finn inched forward, eyes glued to the screen with a focus that Puck thought could possibly be fake, and Puck tilted his head back slightly to sneak a glance over his shoulders at Kurt. Kurt glanced at him, holding his gaze for barely a second before turning back to the screen. He pulled the throw he had around him a little tighter, flipping the bottom down to cover the foot that had started to poke out from under it.

They'd been able to hear Kurt's dad and Finn's mom talking in raised voices for a good part of an hour, but all three of them tensed when the argument suddenly became audible.

"Damnit, Carole," a loud thump punctuated Burt's yell–he must have hit a wall or table, "I can't lose him!"

Finn stood abruptly, talking as he made his way to the stairs, "You guys want something to drink?"

Kurt kept his head tucked down, his chin nearly pressing his chest, and Puck answered for the both of them, "Nah, Finn, we're good."

Finn sprinted up the stairs, and Puck scooted closer to Kurt as Finn's hushed whisper drifted through the floor, unintelligible. Puck bit his lip, working it under his teeth for a second before putting a hand on Kurt's slumped shoulder, "You okay?"

"Not really." A drop landed on the blanket and Puck inched a little closer and pushed his hand over and around Kurt's shoulders, pulling him towards him slightly, "Thanks, Puck."

Puck shrugged and Kurt turned towards him slightly so the arm-over-the-shoulder turned into a hug and Kurt pushed his face into the dip of his collarbone. He wasn't crying, which Puck was definitely thankful for, and Puck cleared his throat, "I wanted to talk to you about yesterday."

"Can we not?" Kurt's voice was muffled against his chest and Puck sighed, tightening his arm around Kurt.

"Okay. Just–" he broke off, and Kurt's head tilted up to look at him, putting their faces about an inch apart, "Is it because I bullied you?"

Kurt's face slid into a gentle smile and he shook his head lightly, "You have no idea how much I wish I still hated you for that."

* * *

Kurt woke abruptly, rolling over and emptying his stomach into the bin beside his bed. He had a moment to take in Quinn, kneeling beside his bed with her hands clasped in front of her closed eyes, before he was half off the bed, his face hovering above the bin.

A small, dainty hand started rubbing circles on his back; he accepted the warm cloth she offered and pressed it into his face.

She sank down to sit on the edge of his mattress while he sat up, folding the cloth and placing it carefully on his side table. He rubbed his eyes, watching his hand shake in front of his face for a minute before reaching over and collecting Quinn's hands. "Were you praying?"

Quinn smiled at him, and although Kurt sensed she was nervous about it, she nodded, "Yes."

Kurt leaned back against his pillows, squeezing her fingers, "I don't mind. Everyone has their coping mechanisms."

Quinn's hand slipped out of his instantly, "It's not a coping mechanism." Kurt blinked rapidly for a moment, watching her glare at him; he twisted his now-empty hands together in his lap, "It's my faith and you have no right to call it a coping mechanism."

"I didn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry, Quinn." Kurt tried to smile, but his eyes were filling with tears as Quinn stared at him, "I can't pretend to understand the intricacies of your faith, Quinn, and I'm sorry if I offended you."

She kept her gaze steady, but he could tell she didn't want to fight with him–it wasn't fair that he was almost crying. Eventually, she nodded, leaning over to fuss with his blankets, "It's alright, Kurt." He watched her, patting the blanket down around him and reaching around him to fluff his pillows.

As she leaned towards him, he noticed the makeup covering the bags under her eyes. She looked washed out–she was nearly as pale as him–and he could see noticeable strain around her eyes. He reached out to stop her, grabbing her hands. She settled back reluctantly, dropping her eyes to watch him rub his thumb soothingly over her hand.

"Look, Quinn, I appreciate all the help, but I think you might be hurting yourself trying to take care of me."

She squeezed his hand, immediately trying to placate him, "I'm not, Kurt. I'm–"

"Quinn, you look sick, and I can't be responsible for that. You need to spend more time taking care of yourself and less time worrying about me." he frowned at her bright, pained eyes, and watched them fill with hurt when he spoke next, "I'm not your child."

The change was immediate: she straightened, tugging her hands away again with more force than was necessary, and her nose flexed in a disdainful sniff, "I think I should go. I'm sorry if I care too much about my friends." She stood swiftly, turning and flouncing her way towards the stairs in a walk Kurt hadn't seen since she'd had her hair up in a tight cheerleading ponytail. He called after her, but her footsteps rushed, clipping against the floor, through the house and the door closed loudly in the empty house.

* * *

Kurt had demanded that Burt and Finn not put their interests on hold just because he couldn't go out when he wanted, so the two of them were out at some sports game–it wasn't football season, but Kurt hadn't paid enough attention to know what sport it was.

Carole watched Kurt from across the table, where she had finished her meal; he was pushing half of his serving around with his fork, obviously unaware that she was watching him. He'd always been pale, but his complexion appeared almost translucent now; it was nice to see that the green tinge of illness had left him. He glanced up and colored, resting his fork carefully against the side of his plate, "Sorry."

She shook her head quickly, "Don't worry about it. Are you full?" she stood, collecting her own plate and then his own when he nodded, and started busying herself at the sink. She rinsed the plates and deposited them in the dishwasher, turning around and ignoring the pots for now, "Did you want to watch a movie with me?"

He smiled, and she rushed forward to help him stand; the second round of chemotherapy had started out rough and he was still struggling to do everyday things like brush his teeth. She wasn't sure who was taking it harder, Kurt or his father, but she sure as hell wasn't about to let either of them give up.

She held up a couple DVDs–ones that she knew were his favorites–and they ended up settling down under a thick blanket to watch _Singing in the Rain_, which she'd seen when she was younger and adored. She sat down beside him and smiled to herself when let his head fall onto her shoulder; she lifted her arm, pulling him closer and rubbing his arm, which was shivering.

His whole body was shivering, but she tried not to think about that kind of thing: how tired he looked; how much weight he'd lost; how his fever had nearly reached the "take him to a hospital" point several times this week; how terrified his father looked when he thought no one was looking.

"Carole?" She glanced down at him, immediately willing to get anything–do anything–for the boy in her arms, but he just smiled tiredly at her, "I'm sorry that I couldn't say I love you before, but I do."

It was so forceless that it should have fallen flat, but it filled her with more despair and happiness than she'd felt in a long time; that a boy as emotionally guarded and perpetually defensive as Kurt could let himself love a person who was taking the place of his mother–at least in his father's eyes–was heartbreaking to Carole. She held him tighter, trying to prevent the tears from falling until she was on her own or he was no longer watching her reaction with those terrifyingly bright eyes. "Sweetie, I love you too."

He closed his eyes, dropping his head back down onto her shoulder, and Carole stared at the top of his bald head, thinking about too much and trying to calm the storm of endless possibilities raging in her head. Finally, as she realized he was falling asleep on her shoulder, she twisted her neck, pressing a smooth kiss to side of his skull.

* * *

Quinn came back four days later–the last day of Kurt's second round of chemo–wringing her hands and looking chagrined.

Puck's entire body stiffened with tension when she came down the stairs, and Kurt turned, almost ready to ask what was wrong and spotted Quinn at the bottom of the stairs through the reflection of his vanity mirror. He twisted back around, standing quickly.

She fidgeted for a moment, her eyes darting between the two of them and then a spot on the wall; Kurt stepped forward fluidly, drawing her in for a hug before she could say anything.

"Don't worry." Kurt whispered, stroking her luxurious hair and trying not to miss his own, "Neither of us have anything to be sorry for, Quinn."

"I'm still sorry," she mumbled into his shoulder, and then she straightened out her head so her chin was resting on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she repeated, quiet and breathless. Kurt stayed silent, not knowing that the second apology was not meant for him.

They sat down on the couch and Puck moved over to the single chair Finn had brought down to play his games on. Quinn's hand rested on his knee, squeezing nervously; he watched her fingers tighten around the muscle, aware that his sensitive skin, coupled with his illness, would mean angry bruises the next morning.

"My mom is a registered nurse–apparently, I was exhausted and dehydrated," Kurt stayed still, frowning worriedly, "You were right, and I'm sorry I overreacted. Both of you, really, you didn't deserve that."

Kurt turned, meeting Puck's eyes; he had a feeling that he was mirroring the apparent confusion in Puck's expression. Puck shrugged, so Kurt turned back to Quinn, trying to extend some kind of olive branch. Just like Rachel, Quinn embraced any show of friendship. Unlike Rachel, it was because she felt she didn't deserve it. "I'm glad you're here Quinn."

Somehow, because of how naturally comfortable he'd become with both of them–Quinn due to her friendship with Mercedes and Puck due to his willingness to skip school to be with Kurt during the day–he ended up telling them about his night with Carole, and his developing guilt over what he felt was betraying his mother's memory.

"Could you do something special for your mom?" Quinn suggested, "You could visit her?"

Puck nodded, even though Kurt was facing Quinn and couldn't see him. "Yeah. I have to wait until I'm off treatment and my immune system can handle a trip outside."

"I can come with you."

Kurt's smile froze awkwardly on his face; for some reason, he'd seen himself going to the graveyard not with Quinn, or his dad, or Finn, but with Puck. Puck who had tried to kiss him, Puck who seemed to care about him, Puck who had backed off because Kurt had implied that he'd wanted him to.

Puck, who reached forward and started rubbing smooth circles on his back when he started crying–whether it was for his mom or for the fact that he was apparently crushing hard on Puck, he wasn't sure.

* * *

_Reviews are love._


	11. Chapter 10

"He's not doing so great today." Burt crossed his arms, casually leaning against the open door, and Puck glanced past him into the empty living room, "His central line is infected, so the doctor is here making sure everything's clear."

"Is he okay?"

Burt nodded, "Yeah. Not really coherent, and knowing Kurt, he doesn't want friends seeing him delirious and violently ill."

Puck grinned, matching Burt's calm smile.

"I'll get Kurt to let you know when he's a little better. He has your number?"

Puck thought about it, but he was pretty sure he'd either come over with Finn or had just come uninvited, so he shook his head, "No, I don't think he does. You could give me his?" Burt merely raised an eyebrow, but when Puck fished his phone out of his fitted jeans–from some fancy place in the mall. He'd been hoping to impress Kurt–Burt rattled the digits off, "Cool. Thanks, Mr. Hummel."

He offered a hand lift, rather than a wave, in awkward farewell, and then turned and trudged the steps slowly. "Thanks, kid." Puck turned, lifting his head to look at Burt, who was still frozen in the doorway, looking welcoming despite his crossed arms.

"For what, sir?"

"For whatever it is you're doing. He's always happier when you're here." Puck blinked, surprised, and then his cheeks twitched into a big, stupid grin. Burt's eyebrow lifted again and his smile slipped slightly.

Puck backed a few steps away, half-turned, and called back, "No problem, Mr. H."

His smile remained, even after he'd returned to an empty home and a small bout of insomnia.

* * *

Kurt stroked Fiyero's back absently; his half-eaten salad was on the floor in front of the dog, who was eating quickly so Kurt wouldn't take it away again.

Finn and Puck were playing a game on Kurt's Wii, and Kurt watched in fascination as Finn managed to keep his hands on the controller and finish eating his hamburger at the same time. Puck's head had a dark, very thin layer of hair grown back, but Kurt wasn't going to ask him to shave it again: he was getting curious as to how Puck's hair naturally looked.

"Noah, it's past eleven!" Puck swore; the curse about spending time with Finn was that his mom knew when Puck's mom wanted him home. Kurt watched him stand, and took the offered controller when Puck saw that he'd finished eating.

"We still on for tomorrow?"

Kurt smiled, "Of course. As long as I'm not delirious with fever, then I'll be ready to go bright and early."

Finn watched them: watched Puck's hand linger on Kurt's as he handed him the controller; watched the heated staring match that neither seemed to realize they were participating in; watched Kurt's eyes follow Puck up the stairs and remain fastened to the last place Puck's feet had been.

"Where are you going tomorrow?"

Kurt glanced back, frowning when he realized that Finn had started the next level and Kurt had already lost one of Puck's hard-earned lives. He bounced on Finn's character's head in retaliation, "Puck's taking me to visit my mom."

Finn's character–Mario–landed on a Goomba and then fell off the screen. Kurt kept going, ignoring the way Finn had turned back to him incredulously, "Why aren't you going with your dad?"

Kurt snuck a glance at him, but he'd turned back when Kurt had popped Mario's bubble, "I figured this is hard enough as it is without me making him revisit difficult memories."

Finn nodded vacantly, suddenly refocused on the game, "Okay, just let me know if you need me to smack some sense into Puck."

Kurt gasped, his Toad ran head-first off of a cliff, "What?"

"Cause you like him, right?" Finn was terrible at keeping the amusement out of his voice.

"What gave you that idea?"

Finn finished the level without Kurt's Toad, who was bobbing along in the bubble behind him, and shrugged. "You like to forget that I know what you look like when you like someone."

Kurt gaped, watching Finn stare fixedly at the screen; when did they both become comfortable with Kurt's long-gone crush?

* * *

Puck was confused. Not about his sexuality–he didn't go three years sleeping with anyone he could and come out unaware that he was at least a little bisexual–but about how he ended up madly in love–or like, or whatever the sixteen-year-old equivalent of love is–with Kurt Hummel.

He helped Kurt into his seat, because apparently being well enough to go outside did not mean well enough to climb into Puck's beat up old truck, and then crossed around the front of the car while Kurt strapped himself in.

"You okay?" the truck roared to life beneath his hands and Kurt rolled his head over, where it was resting on the headrest because Kurt could barely hold it up.

"Yes," Kurt smiled, tapping his fingers slowly against the arm rest that jutted out of the door, "Thanks for taking me."

Puck fought a smile as he braced a hand on the side of Kurt's seat and backed down the driveway, "No problem."

"I know it's weird, but I didn't really want to go with Finn."

Puck shrugged, flicking his signal light and motioning with his hand to ask Kurt if he was going in the right direction.

"Left, and then right on 124th street." Kurt nodded, watching the trees go past outside his window.

"I know what you mean, though," Kurt frowned, still gazing out the window, and his eyebrows drew together, but he didn't say anything back, "About Finn. He's not the greatest with tact and sensitivity and all that jazz."

Kurt giggled as Puck took one hand off the wheel to give a brief jazz hand and he finally lifted his head off the seat; it always made Puck happy when he managed to get a little more life out of Kurt, "I cannot believe this."

"What?"

"You–calling yourself sensitive and using theatre references in one sentence." Kurt lifted a hand and pressed it over his heart, rolling his eyes skyward, "We've come so far."

"Shut up," Puck grumbled, shoving Kurt in the shoulder, but he was laughing. He turned up the radio, effectively ending the conversation because he knew Kurt's moods well enough to tell when talking would just wear him out; throughout the ride, he snuck peeks at Kurt, whose face wore a small smile for the majority of the ride, and ignored the urge to reach over and hold Kurt's hand, resting on the console between them.

* * *

They walked beside each other, and Puck finally came to realize how strange it was to be walking Kurt, the boy he'd thrown in dumpsters for months, to his mother's grave. To top that off, he was kind of hoping for a breakdown–not because he liked seeing Kurt cry, because he hated seeing that, but because it might give him the opportunity that Santana thought he needed.

Kurt walked slowly, stiff and exhausted; Puck could see the strain in the back of his neck, in the way he held himself, in his eyes. He was supersensitive to Kurt's hand brushing against his as they walked and to the soft sighs of breath that puffed out from Kurt's face in the cold morning.

They stopped together, and Puck followed Kurt's movement so he faced the simple plaque in the ground. It was elevated, on an angle, towards them. The inscription was simple:

_Katherine Elizabeth Hummel_

_1967-2002_

_Beloved Wife, Mother, and Daughter._

It was followed by a simple drawing of a marigold flower, which Kurt quietly told him was her favorite. He lowered himself to his knees on the grass; it said something that Puck's first thought was _Won't that ruin his pants?_, but he kept his mouth shut, watching Kurt stare at the plaque.

"Hey, mom." It startled Puck. He knew some people talked to their dead relatives–Finn used to do it as a kid. He probably still did, but they hadn't talked about it in years–but he hadn't expected Kurt to be one of those people, "I have cancer. Leukemia," Kurt let out a tiny, breathlessly bitter laugh, "The same kind as you: acute myeloid leukemia. It's so rare, but I got it."

Puck could see the tensing of Kurt's shoulders, the way his hands were twitching to rest on his hips or cross over his chest, and knew he was struggling not to cry.

"Dad says it's because we're so similar. He thinks we–I mean him and I–have nothing in common," Puck averted his eyes, watching an old couple walk hand-in-hand a few rows away. The woman was crying. Puck didn't think it was fair to have to bury someone you loved; he looked back down at Kurt, at the sharp curve that marked where his skull ended at the back of his bald head, "But we look so much alike. He doesn't realize, but I have his eyes and his nose. Or maybe he does." Kurt sighed and rocked back on his heels.

His head was tucked down, and his shoulders slowly but surely started shaking, and Puck stepped a little closer, "Hey. You okay?"

Kurt shook his head, still facing the ground. "No," his voice cracked, "Not really."

Puck dropped to his knees, wrapping his arm around Kurt and pulling him closer. Kurt was too skinny: Puck could feel his ribs jutting against his hand, which he hadn't felt during the countless times he'd lifted him over the lid of a dumpster. Kurt turned towards him, pressing his face to Pucks shoulder and wrapping an arm around Puck's neck.

Puck squeezed him once, and then they tilted sideways, sitting against Katherine Hummel's plaque and cuddling. Kurt pressed himself flush against Puck's body, turning sideways until Puck was practically cradling him. Kurt was sitting on the ground, but his legs were bent so his feet were between Puck's legs, and he had both arms thrown around Puck's neck.

Puck pressed a hand to Kurt's shaking shoulder, rubbing his other hand against the small of Kurt's back. Kurt shook; Puck could feel a damp spot spreading from where Kurt's face was, but he couldn't care less.

* * *

Puck held him close for a long time; Kurt's face was buried against his neck and he could feel the soft texture of Kurt's lips.

Eventually, Kurt pulled away a little, wiping his eyes and smiling sheepishly. Puck stared at the smile on his face for a minute before he brought his hand up to cup Kurt's cheek and pull him forward.

Kurt's eyes fluttered shut, but his body went rigid. It was the gentlest Puck had ever kissed anybody; he tugged lightly on Kurt's bottom lip and Kurt made a noise in the back of his throat and brought his hands up to shove at Puck's chest, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Puck opened his eyes, startled, "What?"

Kurt moved away, standing up and putting a few steps between them. His voice was dangerously rough–deeper than Puck had ever heard it, "I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity!" Puck tried, "I think I lo–"

"Don't." Kurt cut across, "It doesn't work like that." Puck had no idea what to say, so he watched Kurt's eyes fill with indignant tears in silence.

When Kurt spoke again, his voice was closer to normal, but Puck thought he sounded slightly more hysterical, "Why do you think I've been avoiding talking about this, Puck? I don't want this," he gestured between them desperately, "I can't–I can't handle this right now."

He turned away, and Puck watched him press his palms against his face firmly and then he dropped his arms, turning back to Puck and gesturing at nothing in particular.

"I don't believe in a God. How could I?" He broke off, his voice high and broken, and then looked away and laughed bitterly; Puck blinked stupidly, wondering where this was going now, "I lost my mom when I was eight, I've had to live with being gay and all that comes with it in a small-minded town, and now… Puck, I might die."

"You're not–"

"Shut up!" Puck closed his mouth, taking a step closer to Kurt, who backed away, shaking his head, "I don't believe in a God, so I don't know what's waiting for me. Maybe I'll be with my mom. Maybe I won't. But it doesn't matter where I am, Puck. It doesn't matter, because I'll be leaving my dad, and Mercedes, and all my dreams. Every hope I've ever had for my future–none of it will come true for me."

It clicked in the middle of his rant for Puck–Kurt had watched the exact same disease destroy his mom, and if she wasn't strong enough to beat it, how could he? He didn't know what to say to make him understand that he didn't care, that it didn't matter that Kurt was sick, but he couldn't even bring himself to tell Kurt he _was _strong enough. He had to be.

Kurt paused, taking a shaky breath to steady himself, "Don't you _dare_ make this harder than it already is. _Please_." The last word came out in a whisper, pleading and desperate. Puck wasn't sure how long they stared at each other, Kurt breathing hard and crying, Puck tensed with his fists clenched, but then Kurt lifted his arms and wrapped them around himself, "Can you take me home now?"

* * *

_Reviews are love._


	12. Chapter 11

"So seriously, when are you going to make a move?"

"You and Kurt would make cute babies." Santana shrugged when Puck looked at her, ignoring Brittany in favor of glaring demandingly at Puck; he mumbled under his breath, hoping she'd drop it.

"Come again, I can't hear you when you act like a pouty five-year-old." Brittany stared at him expectantly, a pleasant smile on her face, while Santana grinned.

"I kissed him already, okay?"

Santana pushed herself towards him, grabbing at his leg to stop the swivel chair she was perched on from continuing its spin, "Spill, stud." He closed his eyes against her penetrating gaze; Brittany clapped her hands together excitedly and Puck tried to turn away from the two of them.

Santana let out a breathless laugh, "Holy shit, you got denied by the virgin gay."

"Shut up, San. I'm not afraid to hit you." She grinned, devilish, and he turned towards her, trying to be firm, "I'd really prefer not to talk about it."

"Puck. Come on, it's me." She flicked her hair out of her face; it was still so strange to see her without the Cheerio ponytail, "You have so much dirt on me–on _us–_" Brittany nodded, reaching out to hold his hand in what he assumed she thought was comforting, "What are you afraid of?"

Santana sighed, and Brittany patted him awkwardly on the arm, "Why did he reject you?"

"Cause he's scared. Seriously, we're not talking about this."

"God, fine." She stood up and he followed the movement. Brittany stared up at them, startled, "You think we're going to stick around here when we could be having sex at my place?" Brittany smiled, standing and practically sprinting out the doorway. Santana giggled, following behind her.

"Can I watch?" He didn't really want to, but he was still a warm-blooded and straight–well, mostly straight–male, not to mention how bored he was from avoiding Kurt and Finn's place.

"Don't be an ass." She paused in the doorway, "And stop being selfish. You really think romance is what he needs right now? Go visit him, you prick." She disappeared down the hallway and he felt an explicit sense of déjà vu.

"You told me to make a move, you bitch!" He shouted after her, slamming the door against the laughter that sprinkled up from the main floor.

* * *

Puck clenched his fists at his sides, trying to focus on the story Mike was telling: apparently, he'd gone out on a date with Quinn.

Kurt leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter and smiling politely at the boy across the counter. Kurt was off treatment again, so they were back at the bowling alley, but Kurt was avoiding Puck as much as possible, and as far as Puck knew, only Santana and Brittany knew that anything had happened between the two of them.

Kurt smiled, his mouth moving around words that made the boy across from him laugh loud enough that Puck could hear it over the music. Puck gritted his teeth.

"What the hell does he think he's doing?"

The question had been more to himself, but Tina leaned towards him, keeping her eyes on Artie, who was rolling towards the lane with a ball at his side, "Hmm?"

"He's flirting."

Tina's hair swept against his arm as she turned her head, following his gaze, "I'm glad." Puck only growled in return, and then Tina's hand rested on his upper arm, trying to get his attention, "Kurt is allowed to flirt. Nothing bad is going to come of it."

Puck shook his head, "That's bullshit."

"Puck, you're acting crazy. It's scaring me." Puck blinked; Tina hardly spoke to him, but he knew the subtle inflections in her voice well enough to know she wasn't exaggerating–he was creeping her out.

"Sorry."

She met his eyes, her concern for his sanity growing, "Why are you mad that Kurt is flirting with a hot guy?"

"That guy is _not _hot!" Santana kicked him, making a face at him that let him know he was being loud–and gay. He nodded his thanks, even as Tina laughed awkwardly.

"That doesn't answer my question." He ignored her in favor of watching the boy hand Kurt a napkin–a small, folded square of paper that he'd obviously written a phone number on. His eyes honed in on the napkin, wondering if Kurt would notice if he stole it and burned it in the bathroom. Tina was still watching him, "Oh."

He glanced at her; it didn't take more than a second to know that she'd figured him out, "Shut up, Goth chick."

"Have you told him?" Her tone suggested she didn't think he was stupid or that is was cute, like Santana and Brittany respectively, but that she was genuinely trying to give him advice.

"Yes," he intended to end this conversation as soon as possible. It was no use having another person looking at him like they knew better than he did, "He shot me down." He stood up, moving past the group and slamming himself into the counter.

Kurt scoffed, moving out of his way, and Puck ordered a drink and a plate of nachos. Kurt twirled his fingers at the boy cutely and then stalked past Puck, grimacing when Puck's hand slipped down and tried to catch his wrist. He swept it away easily, walking swiftly back towards their friends.

* * *

"Hey, Rachel needs a ride, so I'm going to take off for a little while." Kurt shifted uneasily in his bed, listening to Finn snapping his cell phone shut, but kept his gaze focused on the article he was reading in his magazine, "Puck, you'll stay until I get back?"

Puck nodded, smiling comfortably at Finn and watching Kurt out of the corner of his eye; it would be the first time they'd been alone since the graveyard, and Puck had finally decided what he wanted to do–and say, if he got up the courage.

He waited until Finn's footsteps were somewhere in the living room, and then he leapt out of the bed, crossing to Kurt's desk and shuffling through drawers angrily.

Kurt dropped his magazine on his lap and propped himself upward, "What, in the name of Ellen, do you think you're doing?"

Puck grunted, "Looking for something."

"What, exactly?" Puck didn't answer, plucking one of Kurt's school books off the desk and shaking it upside down. Several sheets of loose leaf fell on the floor, and Kurt pushed himself out of the bed.

His legs nearly gave out when he first stood, but then Puck dumped his entire makeup bag out and shoved his chair in frustration, turning to enter Kurt's expansive closet; Kurt's anger pumped adrenaline through him and he followed, reaching out to grab one of Puck's arms with both of his hands, "Stop ransacking my bedroom!"

Puck turned towards him, bringing their faces an inch apart, and growled lowly, "Where's the napkin?"

He didn't wait for an answer; sweeping through Kurt's hanging jackets and turning pockets inside out. Kurt, incredulous, watched meekly, "The napkin? What napkin!"

"The one with that weasel's number on it." Puck pushed past him, nearly knocking him backwards into a rack; if Puck hadn't also reached out with one hand to catch Kurt around the waist and balance him, he would have fallen.

Kurt braced his hand against the doorknob, trying to ignore the blurriness around the edges of his vision–he could handle a little lightheadedness–and watched Puck start rifling through his bedside table, "The boy from the bowling alley?"

Puck imitated his voice rudely, "Yes, _the boy from the bowling alley_. You can't tell me you're not looking for anything and then accept some twerp's number." He turned to face him, face red and jaw set, "How's that fair, Kurt?"

"I don't have the napkin, Puck." Kurt kept his voice as flat as possible; he was insulted and starting to feel worse physically, but he didn't want Puck to know he was getting to him, "I gave it back to him and told him the same thing as I told you. Watered down, naturally, because I hardly know him."

Puck's jaw twitched, and Kurt merely lifted an eyebrow; he could feel heat in his cheeks–whether it was his fever or from anger, he didn't know–but Puck didn't seem to notice, "Really?"

He sighed, taking a weak step forward into the room, "Yes." Puck's eyes narrowed, but Kurt could tell he was fighting a smile. He was happy that Kurt had turned down the other boy as well, "I'm not going to change my decision, Puck. I don't want any kind of romance. It hurts too much."

The turn of Puck's lips changed into a downward twist, "How is that fair?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your excuses are bullshit, and you know it. You're just scared of actually getting hurt." Kurt opened his mouth, and Puck took a step toward him, "Finn was a safety crush. You know it, I know it, I'm sure half of glee club knows it. You only liked him at all because he was _safe_."

"Puck, stop it. You don't know what you're–"

Puck laughed, cutting him off and catching his arm as he tried to pass back to his bed–he was starting to feel nauseous and was already dizzy–and turned him around to face him, "I think I do. I think you liked him because you knew he couldn't like you back–he would never–but he would never hurt you either. Never beat you up if he found out; never have some crazy freak out at you for being flirty.

"But he did. He broke your girly little heart and now you're afraid of liking _anyone_. Quinn was right–it's low of me to go after weak people. Thing is, it's low of you to use your cancer as an excuse not to date people."

Kurt scowled, trying and failing to break Puck's grip on his arm, "I'm not weak, and you're being an ass."

"Whatever," he let go of Kurt, pushing him slightly backwards as he did so, and Kurt stumbled, "You're just a scared little boy who needs to hide behind diseases and bitchiness so nobody knows just how scared you are."

Kurt rubbed his arm, watching Puck back away; they were wearing matching scowls, but Puck wasn't going to back down no matter how hurt Kurt looked.

Puck took three steps, and then stopped, his hand on the pole on the pivot of the stairs, "I never thought you were weak, Kurt."

He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice, "Oh, thank you."

"I do now." Kurt's breath hitched and he listened to the sound of Puck leaving; it was interrupted by a roaring in his ears and then the floor rushed up to meet him.

* * *

Finn dropped his the keys to Kurt's Navigator in the small glass dish that sat on their side table; he kept quiet, trying to hear the telltale sounds of whatever music or movie Puck and Kurt had decided to put on, but the house was silent except for Fiyero's pitiable whimpering. It wasn't unusual for him to be locked out of Kurt's room during the days leading up to and during treatment–the risk of infection was too much–but he was a well-behaved dog and him whimpering and scratching at doors was unusual.

"Hey, boy, what's wrong?" Fiyero barked once and swiped his paw across the door–Finn paled. They'd be in so much trouble when their parents saw the door: it was scratched badly and it looked like Fiyero had tried to chew the bottom right corner of the door. "Fiyero, stop! Bad dog!" Fiyero didn't seem to care that he was getting reprimanded, lifting his paw again, "Okay, hold on! I'll let you go see him."

The sound of Kurt making hitched little breathy noises reached him as soon as he opened the door; Fiyero launched down the stairs. When he got low enough on the stairs to see into the room, he swore, nearly falling down the rest of them. _Where the hell was Puck?_

Kurt was laying face down on the floor with his head turned away from him. Fiyero had crossed Kurt's body and lowered his head to lick at Kurt's face.

"Hey, puppy," Kurt whispered at the dog. If Kurt hadn't been breathing so loudly, or he hadn't spoken, or Finn hadn't noticed the rise and fall of his shoulders, he'd have thought he was dead. Finn vaulted down the last few stairs, dropping to his knees beside Kurt and rolling him away from the pool of vomit on the floor.

"Don't feel good." Kurt's voice was slurred–his eyes were unfocused–and he started coughing violently. Finn had to use his own sweater to wipe the vomit from Kurt's chin, watching his lidded eyes flutter open and then squeeze shut. He lifted his hand, pressing the back of it against his forehead: hotter than Finn thought was healthy.

"C'mon Kurt, get up." When Kurt made no move to stand on his own, Finn twisted his arm under Kurt's shoulders and then the other under his legs, lifting him easily; Kurt's head lolled backwards and he groaned, and Finn hoisted him up so his head tipped forwards and rested under his chin, "It's okay, Kurt."

Kurt's left hand twisted in his sweater; the other hung limply from his side and hit Finn's knee on every other step and Finn kept talking, "I swear it'll be okay, Kurt. We'll go to the hospital and they'll fix you. You'll be okay."

He managed to adjust Kurt in the passenger side of the Navigator with relative ease, tucking the seatbelt around his limp form and balancing his head against the window so it didn't roll around.

It wasn't until he was sprinting back up to the house to get the keys that he allowed himself to think what he'd wanted to say: _You'd better be okay. Please be okay._

* * *

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	13. Chapter 12

Katherine Hummel had deteriorated slowly, passing away in her sleep, and Burt had hated every minute of those last days. Burt had watched her health deteriorate, struggling to help Kurt understand but also to maintain his role as father–Kurt had needed him to be strong, so he had been.

Now, he sat in what felt like the same hard plastic chair by his son's bed, in the same brightly-lit hospital, with the same horrified foreboding in his stomach. He was cradling his son's limp hand in his own, much larger one, watching his eyes move quickly beneath his thin eyelids.

Burt wasn't entirely sure what had happened. According to Finn, Kurt's fever had spiked dramatically and he'd collapsed in his room. Finn had left him alone–Burt didn't know, but he was covering for Puck, who still hadn't answered Finn's call–and nobody knew how long he'd been laying there. He'd been mostly unconscious for the past two days, drifting in and out of a delirious haze of sickness.

They'd changed out his central line while he'd been sleeping, and hooked it up to an additional I.V. to keep him hydrated; the skin around it was still faintly red from infection. A thin white bandage was visible under Kurt's baggy shirt–Carole had sent Finn home to grab some comfortable, loose-fitting clothes for Kurt to wear, and he'd come back with a few pairs of silk bottoms from Kurt's drawer and two of his own shirts. He'd merely shrugged when he'd handed them over to Burt, claiming that most of Kurt's shirts were too fancy and tight.

So he'd changed his son into Finn's loose shirt and then nearly cried–Kurt had looked washed out and pitifully sick for weeks, but seeing him in Finn's clothes was like taking twenty pounds off of his torso and it made it so much harder to be strong, to pretend he was sure that the outcome was going to be positive, to maintain the façade of strength he'd been holding around himself for too long.

* * *

Kurt woke up, coherent but exhausted, on his third day in the hospital.

Finn and Rachel were sitting on the left side of his bed, playing cards on the small fold-out table that was attached to his bed, "I'm pretty sure you're cheating."

"I'm appalled that you would accuse me of cheating. 'War' is a game of luck."

Finn dropped his cards with a sigh, pushing them towards her, "A game of luck that I've never won."

She smiled at him, looking adoringly into his eyes, and then her gaze shifted and landed on Kurt's weary face, "Kurt!" Finn jumped, turning and pushing the table down and out of the way; they both scooted closer, "How are you feeling?"

Her hand was cool on his forehead, and he closed his eyes as he answered, "Tired."

She started speaking immediately, talking about everything and nothing. Kurt listened, watching Finn watch Rachel with a look on his face that was full of pure devotion; he'd seen the look directed at Quinn, and now at Rachel, and although he no longer wanted it from Finn, he realized he'd seen it directed at himself.

At the graveyard, in the moment before Puck had kissed him, Kurt had recognized the look that he'd seen once before–when Puck had been staring down through meshed glass at his newborn daughter.

"Rachel, I don't think Kurt is interested." Rachel frowned, but she didn't look insulted.

Kurt pulled himself back to the conversation, "I may not be listening, but it's nice to hear your voices. You could sing, if you wanted." Rachel beamed and Finn's eye twitched as she dragged him from his seat, moving chairs aside so they had room.

"We could show you the number we've been working on in Glee, if you were interested. I mean, I understand if you're not, but I'd love to perform it for you and get your opinion." He nodded, allowing Finn to hoist him up and prop him against the head of his bed.

* * *

It got harder to tolerate his friends as the week wore on.

His dad spent most nights in the room with him, but as it was now summer, his friends were available during the day.

The Glee club trickled through his room, bringing small tokens and, in Mr. Schue's case, a small coupon that read, "Redeem for any solo."

None of them came alone.

When Rachel stopped by, Finn made sure to stay in the room. Matt would come with Mercedes, and during one delirious day, Kurt had seen them holding hands. Mike was trying to woo Quinn, and although she seemed reluctant to start anything, they were almost inseparable. Santana and Brittany came together, which wasn't unusual, but Brittany was wearing a beautiful necklace that she proudly told Kurt was Santana's promise to her.

He nearly cried when Schuester came with Emma Pillsbury; the two of them spent their visit smiling shyly at each other, or proudly, on Emma's part, when Schue handed Kurt the hand-made coupon.

Artie and Tina came twice, bringing a video project Artie had made in AV club; it was a short video, filled with Tina sing-speaking a song that they'd obviously written together. At the end of the video, a black title card showed that the video had been dedicated to him.

He tried not to cry when his friends came to visit and brought him gifts. He didn't bother crying when, after four days in the hospital, Puck still hadn't come.

* * *

"Morning," Finn set the coffee down beside Kurt's bed, hovering for a moment to see if Kurt needed help sitting up.

"Where's dad?" Kurt wrapped both hands around the cup, bringing it into his lap and enjoying the warmth in his palms.

Finn sprawled back in his chair, lifting his long legs and resting them on Kurt's bed, "I made him and mom go get breakfast. Mom said she'd bring you a bagel."

Kurt nodded, and took a small sip of his coffee–he was proud to notice that Finn had memorized his preference.

"How're you feeling?"

He shrugged, "I'm okay."

"You sure, cause you seemed kind of bummed when Mercedes left yesterday." _Mercedes and Matt_, Kurt thought.

"Oh," he knew his demeanor–the casual way he was trying to dismiss it–would give him away, "I'm fine."

Finn's shoe tilted into his vision, tapping once against his thigh, "You don't seem fine. Are you mad at Mercedes?" Kurt lifted his head, arching an eyebrow at Finn's earnest expression, "You fixed Rachel and I–"

"'Rachel and me' is appropriate there."

"–so I figured the least I could do is help you out with your girl problems. I mean, not that they're the same type of girl problems, because that would be weird." His expression was suddenly panicked, "Not that it would be weird if you had guy problems, cause I'd totally listen if you did," he paused, searching Kurt's expression–blank besides the twitching at his mouth that suggested he was amused. "Are you having problems with Puck?"

Kurt paled, suddenly furious at his illness for keeping him in bed. His flight or fight response was hindered by the impossibility of fleeing; he responded sharply as he reached for the remote, "No." The television flickered to life and Kurt turned all of his attention to it.

"Are you–"

"No, Finn," Kurt flicked through the channels rapidly, barely seeing each show, "Nothing is happening between me and Puck." _Not anymore. _

He stopped, lingering on a black and white film, "But you want there to be, right?"

Kurt slammed the remote down beside his leg–the effect was lost somewhat because the collision between bed and remote didn't make a satisfying noise. "And _what_ could possibly have convinced you of that?"

Finn hesitated, nearly tipping backwards out of the blue plastic chair, "I just thought–"

Kurt didn't wait. He'd screwed up with Puck, and he wasn't about to listen to Finn tell him what he already knew, "You thought wrong."

"I thought you might miss him or something. I mean, he hasn't come by since he left you alone, so I'm assuming you had a fight," Finn tried to grab at Kurt's hand, but he shifted his body so it was facing slightly away and shoved his hand beneath the blanket, "I thought you were upset because he hadn't visited."

Kurt ignored him.

Finn sounded upset, like Kurt had insulted his intelligent, when he spoke again, "If it's something else you can just tell me."

"It's–" Kurt sighed, turning back to Finn slowly, "When did you get to be so insightful?"

"Uh… What?"

Kurt smiled, "I'm not used to you knowing exactly what I'm feeling."

Finn grinned, leaning forward and punching Kurt lightly in the shoulder; he settled back in his chair, propping his feet back up on the bed and watching the movie.

It wasn't until the second round of commercials appeared that Finn's startled voice filled the room again, "Wait, does this mean you _are _sad cause of Puck!"

* * *

"Are you going to eat?" Kurt barely acknowledged his dad, lifting his burger to his mouth and taking a small bite out of it.

"I'm hungry, dad," Kurt knew he looked pathetic, hunched over a greasy burger–snuck past the nurses by Finn–in his dad's old University of Ohio sweatshirt, "I just don't feel like inhaling my food like a wild animal."

"You callin' me an animal?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, "I'm calling _Finn_ an animal."

His dad snorted, but he stopped trying to make conversation, opting to watch Kurt chew his food slowly.

After a while, Kurt rolled his eyes and lifted his head to meet his dad's eyes, "What?"

Burt shook his head, an unreadable expression on his face, "Nothing," he sighed, "You have no idea how much I wish you were having boy troubles instead."

Kurt snorted, unable to stop himself from blurting "What makes you think I don't?" It was the kind of think that Kurt hated the moment he said it; he made ridiculous smart-ass comments all the time, but sometimes he'd say something that revealed just a bit too much, like this moment, or he'd make everyone around him feel uncomfortable, like that time Schue had asked them how they answered the phone.

His dad choked around a mouthful of burger and he lunged for the diet coke that was sitting beside Kurt; he slapped his chest a few times, coughing loudly as he tried to control himself. His face was red, but Kurt was sure that was because he'd been choking, and not out of anger.

But cleared his throat, schooling his expression into one of concern, "You're having boy troubles?"

Kurt set his burger down neatly on the tray above his legs and crossed his arms across his chest, "I thought you weren't ready for this conversation."

"I wasn't," Burt admitted, "but that was in October. If you're–seeing someone, or you're interested in someone, I want to hear about it. I know I'm not the best father in the world–"

"You are, actually, but continue."

But spared a quick smile at Kurt, clasping his hands together, "I try, kiddo. And I know how stupid boys can be. Hell, I made so many mistakes with your mom before I smartened up. So," he leaned back slightly, opening his arms in a move that reminded Kurt distinctly of Mr. Schue, "Lay it on me. Tell me all about the dumbass boy in your life."

Kurt's smile dropped off his face, "Me. I'm the idiot." He hadn't even realized he was going to say it; hadn't known that he believed it himself.

His dad frowned.

"I screwed up what may have been my only shot at anything," he closed his eyes, falling back against the pillows with a small exhale of breath.

"Don't talk like that." His dad was quiet for a long time, and Kurt started to think that it was all he had to say; the only sounds in the room were the steady drip of his medication and the quiet ticking of the wall clock.

"So… Is this about that Puck kid?"

Kurt opened one eye and then the other, "How did you guess that?"

His dad shrugged, too smug, "Parents see all, know all."

Kurt narrowed his eyes, "Remind me to smack Finn upside the head with my Gucci bag."

Burt laughed, "Of course, kiddo. Now," he took another bite of his burger, talking around the food, "Tell me how you screwed up."

* * *

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	14. Chapter 13

Puck fell out of his bed, hitting the floor with a loud groan. The pounding on the front door continued; he could vaguely make out somebody shouting.

He hauled himself up, rubbing a hand over his head and walking down the stairs as quickly as his sleep-addled body was allowing. He turned into the living room and the pounding stopped–Finn's face hovered in the window beside the doorway, and he mouthed, "Let me in," when he saw Puck.

Puck frowned, raising his voice so Finn could hear him, "You're not going to hit me if I open up?"

Finn's eyes rolled behind the glass, "Why would I hit you, dude?"

Puck was skeptical, but he opened the door anyways. Finn stepped past him, toeing his shoes off. He waited until Puck had closed the door behind them to punch him in the face. Puck staggered backwards into the wall, lifting a hand immediately to his jaw, "What the fuck, man?"

Finn shook his hand loosely, grimacing, "That's for leaving him alone, jackass."

"So I upset him," Puck glared, shrugging casually, "He's the dumbass in this shit."

Finn stared at him, obviously trying to control his temper, "Look, I have no idea what you two said to each other. All I know is that I found my little brother face down in a pool of his own fucking vomit. _That's _why I punched you." Puck reeled: the emotional punch to the gut took more out of him than Finn's fist colliding with his jaw.

"Shit, he–How's he doing?"

Finn shrugged, finally looking away, "He's in the hospital, but I think he's fine," He rolled his eyes, a small smile spreading over his face, "He _says _he's fine."

Puck snorted, leading Finn into the kitchen and pulling two beers from the fridge. Finn took one, almost instantly peeling at the label, "Is your mom out of town or something?"

"No," Puck flicked the cap of his own beer off and let it clatter noisily on the table, "She's just given up trying to stop me."

Finn nodded, absently running his forefinger over the top of the bottle, "So when are you going to visit him?" Puck hated that–the way Finn could redirect the conversation and make it seem casual and innocent.

Instead of answering, Puck lifted the bottle to his mouth and poured the liquid down his throat.

"He misses you, dude."

He let out a sharp laugh, "No, he doesn't. He made it clear that he has no interest in me." It wasn't true, and he knew it–Kurt hadn't said anything to imply that he didn't return the feelings, just that he didn't want to.

"I dunno," Finn took a sip from his bottle, his lips pulled into a smile around the neck, "He seems to think he messed up something between you two."

"Really?" Finn just looked back at him blankly, "I said some pretty shitty things."

"So what?"

"So Kurt has standards."

Finn ignored him, "You need to go see him. I don't care if you hurt him or he hurt you. He misses you, so grow a pair and go see him."

Puck stood up, turning around and digging in the fridge for another beer, "Fuck you, Finn."

* * *

Kurt was still awake at one A.M., kept up by another infection and its accompanying fever. His nurse had smiled sweetly at him over two hours ago and told him to his the call button if he needed anything, and then left, closing the door smoothly behind her.

So when the door creaked open, Kurt's first instinct was to search out the button and make sure he hadn't accidentally summoned a nurse. He found the button on his side able, and he'd barely looked towards the doorway when Puck's quiet, "Hey," stopped his questions.

He shifted, not moving to sit up but adjusting himself so he could see Puck better; he looked disheveled, like he'd been caught in the rain.

"Hi," he was thankful for the darkness of his room–he didn't want Puck to see how happy he was to see him.

Puck took a step into the room, shuffling his feet. Kurt swallowed, "Look, if you're just here to yell at me some more then–"

"M'not–I'm sorry." Puck stumbled forward, dropping clumsily to his knees and holding himself up on the side of Kurt's bed, "I shouldn't have left you 'lone. S'my fault you're here and I'm so stupid."

He put his head down on Kurt's bed, groaning loudly.

He started talking, his face still pressed into the mattress, "I get it, y'know? I really do."

He ignored Kurt's muted shriek of "Are you _drunk_!" and kept mumbling.

"You should get your dreams, Kurt. Even if you can't have all of 'em, you should want what you can." He turned his head to stare up at Kurt, who had lifted himself up on his elbows and was watching him incredulously.

"Please, Hummel. Just, like–give me a chance to make you happy, 'ven it's only for–fuck, for a little while."

"Okay," Puck blinked, lifting himself off the bed and Kurt smiled at him, repeating the word that had surprised both of them, "Okay. I'll let you try."

Puck grinned, crawling forward and nearly falling down, "Great. S'awesome." He pulled himself up to stand and leaned down, half laying on the bed, to press a sloppy kiss to the side of Kurt's mouth.

He lifted up again, grinning, and Kurt made a small "Ew" noise, "You taste like cheap beer."

Puck snorted, pushing his knee into Kurt's legs and nudging him over, "You taste like vomit, I win."

Kurt winced, moving over so Puck could crawl into the bed with him, "Sorry."

Puck made a noise in his throat, settling into the space under Kurt's armpit and pressing his face against the side of his torso, "Don't care. 'm drunk anyways."

Kurt let Puck curl against him, closing his eyes, "I can't believe they let you in here like this."

Puck grunted, his breath hot against Kurt's skin and through the fabric of his pyjamas, "Didn't. 'm stealthy."

Kurt laughed, struggling to keep it down so the nurses wouldn't come by to kick Puck out.

* * *

The first thing Kurt became aware of was the gentle sounds of somebody strumming on a guitar. He opened his eyes, blinking drowsily at Puck, who was sitting in a hard chair, bent over his guitar.

Kurt watched Puck run his fingers over the strings, flicking them gently–Kurt thought he recognized the song, but in his half-awake state, he couldn't be sure.

Somebody cleared their throat, and Puck looked up, locking eyes with Kurt for a split second before Kurt turned his head to see his dad, leaning back in the chair that seemed affixed to the side of his bed.

Kurt glanced down at his collarbone, startled to realize his central line was no longer hooked up to anything, "Am I finished treatment?"

His dad nodded, "For now," and continued watching Kurt attentively. Puck stopped strumming his guitar–both men were waiting for any indication that Kurt needed help. He felt better than he had in weeks–he loved the random moments that his body decided to cooperate with him–so he sat up easily, swinging his legs out of the bed and throwing the blanket off.

His dad jolted, eyes widening, "What are you doing?"

Kurt rolled his eyes and reached for Puck, who stood and caught his arm immediately, "I've been trapped in this bed for nearly a week. I need to stretch my legs. Is that allowed?" He drew out the last word, leveling a glare at his dad that Puck would have withered away from–Burt Hummel didn't even flinch.

He simply sighed, sitting back and running a hand over his bald head, "I suppose I can't stop you, can I?"

Kurt beamed, "Nope." Puck followed him to the door, "Are you coming?"

His dad flipped open a magazine–some boring thing called _Fly, Rod, and Reel_–and motioned vaguely with his hand, "No. Keep him on this floor, Puckerman."

"Yes, sir," Puck saluted behind Burt's back, and Kurt swatted his hand down. Kurt had fully expected Puck to sling the guitar over his back and bring it with them, and he smiled to himself as they left without it–he'd prefer _not _being serenaded in front of the hospital staff.

"Thanks for that." Kurt leaned into Puck, relishing his low voice, as they stopped, resting against an empty nurse's station.

"For what, precisely?" Puck pushed him back against the counter, putting a hand on each side of Kurt's waist. Kurt brought his hands up, resting one on Puck's upper arm and letting the other trail around to the base of his neck.

Puck let out a short bark of laughter, "Your dad found me in your bed, dude–he's been murdering me with his eyes all morning."

Kurt lifted an eyebrow, leaning back to trail his eyes down Puck's face, "Did you have your guitar with you last night?"

"No," Puck leaned forward, resting his forehead on Kurt's, "I went home to shower."

Kurt sighed, "Well, I'm sorry about my dad. He's just–protective."

Puck laughed, low in his throat, "So why were _you _so eager to get out of there?"

He blushed, turning his head so Puck's slipped against his, and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, "To be honest, I was afraid you were about to serenade me."

Puck grinned cockily, "So what if I was?"

Kurt pulled back, bringing his hands to Puck's shoulders and pushing their bodies apart, "I swear on my entire wardrobe, I will chop your favorite appendage off if you ever sing a song by a homosexual Jew at, around, or about me."

"There's like, no gay Jews," he sucked his lip inwards in a false pout, "Well, now there's me." Kurt laughed, embarrassingly loud, and Puck squeezed his hips, "But I had a decent rendition of 'For Good' from that play you like all worked out for you. I actually listened to it before I picked it, so there's that."

Kurt smiled brightly, happy tears threatening to spill over, and Puck made it his personal goal to get Kurt's eyes to sparkle more often, "As much as the song is completely unnecessary, I would love to hear it."

* * *

Mercedes made her next visit to Kurt with Matt, which would have been okay with Kurt had they not walked in on Puck laying flat on Kurt's hospital bed with Kurt straddling his waist.

"Damn, white boy." Kurt squeaked into Puck's mouth and tried to roll off, but Puck simply tightened his hold on Kurt–one hand stayed firmly planted on his ass–and guided him off of the bed.

"Oh, don't mind us," Mercedes' voice was impossibly dry, but there was a smile on her face. Matt's was frozen in surprise. Kurt tried to shake Puck off, but the other boy merely pulled him back until he was sitting on the side of the bed; Puck slid closer and draped an arm around Kurt's shoulders.

"Are you two an item now?" Mercedes put her hands on her hips, tilting her head bitchily to the side.

"Are you two an item?" Kurt fired back, nodding towards the two of them silhouetted in the doorway, speaking at the same time as Puck, who proudly said "Yes."

Matt grinned, taking a few steps towards them and meeting Puck's free hand in a high five.

"Boy, do we need to have a gab session." She came forward, snapping her fingers in front of Puck's face, "You. Boy-toy. Out."

Puck whistled lowly, "I can tell when I'm not wanted." He stood, kissing Kurt quickly before dragging Matt from the room, "Come on, Mattie, let's let these two have their…" he trailed off, looking torn and settling on "…feminine talk."

"Smooth," Kurt called after them, ignoring the face that Mercedes was making at him; she had noticed Puck's gentle kiss and the subtle squeeze he'd given to Kurt's shoulder as they'd parted.

"Wow, babe. You really landed him, didn't you?"

Kurt nodded wisely, "The trick is to convince him you have a horrifying disease. He falls all over himself just to love you."

"Love, honey?" She sat beside him, reaching across the bed to hold his hand, "You're done for."

"He's said it," he smiled gently, "I haven't." She cleared her throat pointedly, and he gasped dramatically, "What? I _haven't_!

"I want to know if you're going to." He pursed his lips, trying to cover his smile, but she saw it; she reached out and hit him in the shoulder–gently, because _no one _would hit him even remotely hard–and he started laughing. She crossed her arms, scowling, "You _know _Pucks a player, right?"

"Of course I know who Puck used to be," she snorted at him, "Okay, so he's still the same, just–more loyal; faithful. Mercedes," he drew out the end of her name in a whine that he knew annoyed her, "He's been with me for almost all of my treatment. I don't think he's so much as kissed anyone else since my diagnosis."

She sighed, giving his hand on more squeeze before lifting her purse onto the bed and revealing her favorite manicure set.

He exhaled dreamily, "You're an angel. I have told you that before, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have." She pulled the bedside tray between them–they'd automatically moved to sit cross-legged across from each other–and began laying things out, "Just so you know, if he hurts you–" With the tone of voice she was using, Kurt could've sworn she was talking about buying a pet rabbit for Brittany; her eyes stayed focused on his hands, already laid out flat on the table, "I'm gonna bust more than just his windows."

* * *

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	15. Chapter 14

Kurt flexed his hand; he was stuck lying on his side, having just received his second biopsy.

His dad had sat beside him this time, wringing Kurt's hand and continually asking if he was alright. Kurt had almost wished for Finn, but when he'd started feeling sore and his dad had demanded they give him more for the pain, he'd been grateful.

"You okay?"

"Yes," Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes," I'd like to sit up, though." His dad hummed in acknowledgement and shifted in his chair; Kurt had a feeling that his dad was fighting the urge to get up and stretch his legs until Kurt was given the all clear to move.

"Another twenty minutes, bud." Burt rocked back in his chair, exhaling nervously and glancing at the poster on the wall–Mike had turned out to be quite the sketch artist and had drawn a massive picture of the entire glee club for Kurt–and running his hands on his jeans.

"Dad?" He stopped, recognizing the trepidation in his son's voice, "Is something wrong?"

"No," his dad smiled, obviously trying to reassure Kurt, "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Okay…" he drew out the last syllable, automatically preparing himself for his dad to attempt the sex talk–the sure-to-be uncomfortable and mortifying "gay sex" talk–when he was incapable of moving, let alone fleeing.

"I wanted to–When you're out of the hospital, I–" he cleared his throat awkwardly; Kurt just waited –if his dad couldn't even start the conversation, he wasn't going to help. "Look, Kurt," he put a hand on Kurt's shoulder, sending a shiver of nervous energy though him, "I'm going to ask Carole to marry me."

It was so far from what he'd been expecting; all Kurt could manage was "No way."

"Kurt, I know this is fast, but–"

"Not a bad 'no way', dad." Kurt let his face explode in a sunny smile, "Awesome."

His dad looked surprised, blinking cautiously, "I thought I'd have to talk you into this."

"I'm just happy you're not trying to give me a sex talk," his dad's face slackened, "Not that we need to have that–Did you buy a ring yet?

His dad gave him a look that told him it had been a very big mistake to bring up sex and then smiled, "I haven't yet. I was hoping you–as my very fashionable best man–" Kurt nodded, smiling proudly, "–would come with me to pick one out. When you're out of this place."

"Of course. I get to dress you, right?" his dad nodded, somewhat reluctantly, "Finn too?"

His dad's eyebrows lifted–he'd never perfected the single swooping arch quite like Kurt had, "Finn might end up as his mom's… Uh–"

"Honor attendant?"

"That's the one." Kurt closed his eyes, trying to visualize the ideal ring for Carole, and his dad's hand threaded into his own, "I'm so proud of you, kid," Kurt opened his eyes, but his dad was staring at something over his head, "You've been so brave, dealing with all of this–Carole and me, the Hudson's moving in, this Puck boy. And leukemia on top of everything.

"I couldn't have done it," he laughed, choked up, "I could barely handle it anyways."

Kurt froze up, his hand clenching around his dad's. He stared up at the sheen of tears in his dad's eyes, "Dad, I'm okay. Don't–"

Burt waved him off, "I just wanted you to know I'm proud of you."

* * *

Puck kept his fingers hooked in the straps of his backpack, hoping the nurses wouldn't stop him; they'd been wary of him since figuring out he'd snuck past them three nights previous.

He really hoped Finn could keep Burt–and anyone else who might interrupt–away from Kurt's room, at least for the next hour or so.

Sure enough, when he turned into the hallway that led to Kurt's room, he spotted Finn guiding Rachel in the opposite direction. Burt and Carole followed behind, holding hands loosely like they'd been in love for years.

He side-stepped into Kurt's room just as Burt's head started to turn, letting out a loud sigh of relief. Kurt was sitting up, watching a tape–where Finn had managed to find a VHS tape and how he'd managed to record Kurt's show, Puck couldn't begin to figure out. When Puck slid in, he knocked against the door clumsily and Kurt looked over, his face melting into a shy smile.

"Hey," he took a couple steps forward, swinging his backpack–from middle school. Puck didn't use backpacks anymore–onto Kurt's bed, "I brought you a big, cheesy picnic."

The surprised laugh Kurt let out when Puck pulled out a pair of plastic plates and two packages of clear utensils was worth all the trouble he'd gone to–not only had he prepared food that wasn't made in the microwave, but he'd also managed to convince Finn to keep the family distracted while they had their picnic.

He pulled Kurt's tray towards him and started setting out individual containers of food. Kurt took the plates from him, "You made all of this?"

Puck grinned, forgetting about the food for a minute and leaning over to kiss Kurt. He pulled back over a minute later, leaving Kurt blinking dazedly, "I figured since I can't take you out, I'd bring our first date to you." He flicked a Tupperware container open and held it out in front of Kurt, "Ham and cheese good?"

"Ham and cheese sounds perfect." Kurt took the sandwich, delicately laying the two halves on his plate, "Is this why Finn was so eager to abandon me today?"

Puck nodded, squeezing himself in beside Kurt on the bed, "Yep. You wouldn't believe how easy it is to manipulate him."

Kurt knew how easy it was, but he refused to say anything around his food.

"All it took was one teensy threat to tell your dad that he used to toss you in dumpsters," Puck chuckled, taking a bit of his sandwich and chewing thoughtfully, "He didn't seem to realize that he could just tell your dad that I used to do shit too and he'd probably forget all about Finn."

"That's probably true," Kurt leaned into Puck's side, taking a sip from the container of lemonade Puck had brought, "I'm surprised my dad managed to tear himself from my side, actually."

Puck squeezed his arm, leaning down to steal the last bite of Kurt's sandwich from his fingers, "Why's that?"

Kurt sighed, watching Puck lick at his fingers, and then stuck his arm out. A small piece of cotton was taped to the crook of his elbow.

"I had another biopsy last night and they took my blood this morning. We should know–one way or the other–by later today."

Puck sucked in a breath, barely hesitating, "There's no way it's bad. It just–I've got a good feeling today."

"Thanks, but I can't help feeling nervous about it."

Puck lifted Kurt's plate onto the tray and pushed the whole thing out of the way, "I'm not great with the romantic gestures, but we could make out." He rolled over, climbing on top of Kurt and forcing the smaller boy back against the pillows, "I'm sure I can take your mind off it." He winked, leaning down to capture Kurt's mouth.

* * *

The knock at the door was a normal volume, but it reverberated through the room as if the doctor had used a hammer. The final note of Puck's song died out eerily and Finn's hand reached for Kurt's instinctively.

Rachel stood up, pulling her skirt down in a twitchy movement, and then squeezed past the doctor, "I'll go get your dad."

Kurt took a deep breath in as Puck stood, moving to stand against his bed; he could feel the press of Puck's legs heavy against the mattress for support.

Dr. Cartell looked up from her notes, closing the medical folder with a snap that felt like a bone breaking, "Would you like to wait for your father?"

He glanced at Finn, who met his eyes with a thin, reassuring smile, and then at Puck, who kept his eyes focused on Dr. Cartell but reached down, capturing Kurt's free hand–the other was clasped tightly around Finn's large fingers–and giving them a gently, panicked squeeze.

"No," he breathed, "Just tell me." His closed his eyes, braced for the worst; Dr. Cartell's face was usually blank and unreadable, but Kurt didn't want to see any sort of emotion.

"You boys don't have to look so terrified," he could hear the smile in her voice, the subtle inflection that let him know she was undeniably happy, "Kurt, you're in remission."

He opened his eyes, blinking slowly; a haze settled around his eyes and then Puck was on him, hauling him forward into a crushing hug and pressing his face against Kurt's neck.

"I told you," he whispered, his breath ghosting along Kurt's skin, "Fuck, Hummel. I _told_ you."

Another arm closed around his back; Finn's gangly arms wrapped around the both of them and Kurt gasped, letting it sink in.

He was in remission. He was going to be okay. He wasn't going to die.

He had a boyfriend.

He was going to have a _date_ for his dad's wedding. He was going to have _hair_ for his father's wedding.

* * *

Burt cried when he got back to the room, out-of-breath and followed by a teary-eyed Carole and frantic-looking Rachel. He'd stared around the room, sagging into a chair when Kurt flashed him a brilliant smile and Finn swept Rachel up in a twirl of a hug.

"You're clear?"

Kurt nodded, breathless against Puck, who'd only let go of him when Dr. Cartell had cleared her throat. "I still have consolidation therapy, but Cartell says I'm in complete remission and the consolidation will reduce my chances of relapse to less than three percent."

Rachel laughed as Finn set her down, running over and squeezing Kurt gently; he returned the hug, chuckling quietly in shock against a long wave of her hair.

They spent the day talking–occasionally one of them would burst into happy laughter or a sigh of relief–and detailing plans for Kurt's release from the hospital. When Kurt finally dozed off around nine thirty shortly after Carole had left to drive Rachel home–Puck stood up, kissing him on the cheek and whispering a goodbye in his ear, even though his breathing had evened out and his face had relaxed to the point that he had never reached while awake.

He pulled away, watching Kurt's face for a moment–and wondering how he'd fallen so far–before leaning down to pick up the backpack filled with half-empty food containers.

"You really care about him."

Finn's voice sounded genuinely surprised, and he had his arms crossed over his chest. Puck glanced sideways at Burt, whose eyes were glued to Puck's face, "Your point?"

"I just–" Finn shrugged, "I never know with you." Puck's brow knitted together–Finn always _knew _what Puck was feeling, what he was thinking.

"Well, yeah," Puck slung the bag over his shoulder, "I'm not–I'm not the guy who took Quinn from you anymore." Burt cleared his throat, reminding Puck that he was there, "I used to be a jerk. I'm trying really hard to be something else, Finn."

Finn nodded jerkily, turning his eyes downward to watch the gentle rise and fall of Kurt's chest. Puck inhaled through his nose, walking around the bed and opening the heavy door.

"Puckerman," Burt's calm voice stopped him in the doorway, "I couldn't protect him from cancer, but I can sure as hell protect him from you."

He turned, but Burt was watching his son as well.

"Yeah," Finn chimed in, his voice amused but serious, "I mean–I can't beat the shit out of cancer."

"I promise, Finn. Sir," Puck nodded to both of them, even though they couldn't see him, "You will never have to beat the shit out of me for hurting him. Not if I can help it."

Burt met his eyes then, "That's all I need," he smiled, offering his hand, and Puck stepped forward to shake it firmly, "See you tomorrow, then?"

Puck grinned, "Sure thing, Mr. H."

* * *

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	16. Epilogue

Kurt kept his hat tilted at an angle on his first day back to school. It was three weeks into the new school year, but he stalked the hallways proudly, if a little embarrassed at the barely-there layer of hair on his head.

His immune system was finally stable enough to spend an entire day outside–or in the germ-infected hallways of McKinley–and he'd been unwilling to stay at home a single day longer.

He'd been expecting the social order to go back to normal sooner or later, but he hadn't expected the slam against his side and collision with a familiar wall of lockers on the break between second and third period. He'd been walking towards Tina and Artie, and the smiles plummeted off of their faces and then became a blur as he collided with cold metal.

He turned, ready to ream out whoever it was that didn't seem to realize he was still recovering, and then another body flew past him and took the boy–a familiar jock that he recognized from the football team–down in a full-body tackle.

Karofsky punched Kurt's attacker once in the face, hissing angrily, "Didn't I tell you, douche? Hummel is off limits. Like–for good."

"Fuck," the other boy coughed, hands pinned helplessly under Karofsky's knees, "I get it. I'll leave him alone; just get the fuck off me."

Karofsky stood, offering his hand to the stunned jock and hauling him to his feet–Tina and Artie hadn't moved. Their faces were frozen in perfect examples of surprise. A thick hand wrapped around the boy's neck and pushed him forward. "Apologize, tool."

He hunched awkwardly in front of Kurt, mumbling a half-hearted apology that seemed good enough for Karofsky. He let the kid go, brushing his hands together and leaning towards Kurt, "You okay, Hummel?"

Kurt nodded, tilting his head upwards to smile politely at Karofsky, "Of course. That's twice you've rescued me now."

"You don't owe me shit, so you know," he turned his head, glancing down the hallway and nodding at a friend, "I'll keep sticking up for you, dude. I meant it–you're off limits now."

"Thank you, really. It's really great that–" Somebody slammed into Karofsky, pushing him past Kurt and then turning him to shove him into the locker. Kurt frowned, rolling his eyes, "Puck. Let him go."

Puck pushed Karofsky once, who, to his credit, didn't flinch or fight back, "Kurt's mine."

"I'm not your property!" Kurt cried indignantly, but both boys ignored him.

"Whatever, Puck. I was just sticking up for a friend." Kurt grabbed Puck's arm, pushing him away from the lockers and pressing himself up against Puck's torso. It seemed to work–he didn't try to force himself around his boyfriend to get at Karofsky, "See you later, Hummel."

Kurt didn't bother saying goodbye, merely flicking his eyes sideways to acknowledge it.

Puck glared at the locker past Kurt's head. He pressed a soft hand against Puck's warm cheek, pulling it back to slap lightly–not enough to hurt, but enough to snap Puck's eyes to his.

"I'm not your property, Noah," he smiled, leaning forward to press his mouth to Puck's quickly. Puck tried to follow him backwards, but Kurt leaned away, dropping his hand to draw Puck's hand into his own, "_Nothing_ is going to steal me from you."

Puck grinned, pushing Kurt back a step and pressing him against the locker; Kurt tilted up on his tiptoes, letting his arms drift around Puck's neck, "That's for fucking sure."

* * *

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